Miss Pilbeam stole to the door of the next room and peeped stealthily in.  Not a sound came from the cupboard, and a horrible idea that the prisoner might have been suffocated set her trembling with apprehension.

“H’sh!” she whispered.

An eager but stifled “H’st!” came from the cup-board, and Miss Pilbeam, her fears allayed, stepped softly into the room.

“He’s downstairs brushing the mud off,” she said, in a low voice.

“Who is?” said the skipper.

“The fat policeman,” said the girl, in a hard voice, as she remembered her father’s wrongs.

“What’s he doing it here for?” demanded the astonished skipper.

“Because he lives here.”

“Lodger?” queried the skipper, more astonished than before.

“Father,” said Miss Pilbeam.

A horrified groan from the cupboard fell like music on her ears.  Then the smile forsook her lips, and she stood quivering with indignation as the groan gave way to suppressed but unmistakable laughter.

“H’sh!” she said sharply, and with head erect sailed out of the room and went downstairs to give Mr. Pilbeam his breakfast.

To the skipper in the confined space and darkness of the cupboard the breakfast seemed unending.  The sergeant evidently believed in sitting over his meals, and his deep, rumbling voice, punctuated by good-natured laughter, was plainly audible.  To pass the time the skipper fell to counting, and, tired of that, recited some verses that he had acquired at school.  After that, and with far more heartiness, he declaimed a few things that he had learned since; and still the clatter and rumble sounded from below.

It was a relief to him when he heard the sergeant push his chair back and move heavily about the room.  A minute later he heard him ascending the stairs, and then he held his breath with horror as the foot-steps entered the room and a heavy hand was laid on the cupboard door.

“Elsie!” bawled the sergeant.  “Where’s the key of my cupboard?  I want my other boots.”

“They’re down here,” cried the voice of Miss Pilbeam, and the skipper, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, heard the sergeant go downstairs again.

At the expiration of another week—­by his own reckoning—­he heard the light, hurried footsteps of Miss Pilbeam come up the stairs and pause at the door.

“H’st!” he said, recklessly.

“I’m coming,” said the girl.  “Don’t be impatient.”

A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the skipper, dazed and blinking with the sudden light, stumbled into the room.

“Father’s gone,” said Miss Pilbeam.

The skipper made no answer.  He was administering first aid to a right leg which had temporarily forgotten how to perform its duties, varied with slaps and pinches at a left which had gone to sleep.  At intervals he turned a red-rimmed and reproachful eye on Miss Pilbeam.