his overcoat, but that was in his bedroom, and he dreaded the delicacy of going there while she was present. So, in the event, he bade her a brief good night, and found himself on the dark and chilly stairs without so much as a pillow or a blanket to make sleep possible. For lack of anything else in the shape of a weapon, he had brought his silver-keyed flute with him; if he were invaded in the small hours, it might serve him again; it seemed to have a virtue for quelling police officials.
About three o'clock in the morning he awoke from an uneasy doze, chilled to the marrow, and was prompted to try if the flute would still make music. It would not. It is too much to ask of any instrument that has been used as an instrument of war. It had saved a Jewess and her child, magnified its owner into a man of action, and was thenceforth silent for ever.
"I must have hit that officer pretty hard," was the reflection of Robert Lucas.
The episode closed shortly before noon next day, when two elderly