A heavy footstep sounded in the passage, and Hilliard, to whose
emotions was now added a sense of ludicrous indignity, heard talk
between Patty and her uncle.

"You mustn't lock up yet," said the girl, "Eve is out."

"What's she doing?"

"I don't know. At the theatre with friends, I dare say."

"If we'd been staying on here, that young woman would have had to
look out for another lodging. There's something I don't like about
her, and if you take my advice, Patty, you'll shake her off. She'll
do you no good, my girl."

They passed together into the room behind the shop, and though their
voices were still audible, Hilliard could no longer follow the
conversation. He stood motionless, just where Patty had left him,
with a hand resting on the top of the piano, and it seemed to him
that at least half an hour went by. Then a sound close by made him
start; it was the snapping of a violin string; the note reverberated
through the silent shop. But by this time the murmur of conversation
had ceased, and Hilliard hoped that Patty's uncle had gone upstairs
to bed.

As proved to be the case. Presently the door opened, and a voice
called to him in a whisper. He obeyed the summons, and, not without
stumbling, followed Patty into the open air.