“You mean the police won’t!” said Phillida, bitterly.
“The police! I never thought of them.”
“What do you mean to do with this—this infernal machine?” the girl asked, her voice breaking over the perfectly applicable term.
“What do you mean to do with—the writing?” demanded Pocket in his turn.
“Burn it! I’ve asked for a fire in my room; it’s locked away meanwhile.”
“Well, this is yours, too,” said Pocket, deliberately, “to do what you like with as well.”
“They wouldn’t think so!”
“They’ll never know.”
Phillida shook her head, and not without some scorn. “You couldn’t keep it to yourself,” she said. “You would have to tell.”
“Well, but not everybody,” said poor Pocket. “Only my father, if you like!” he added, valiantly.