He'd been particularly ordered to touch up Mrs.De Peyster's private desk, he said." "And you gave him the key ?" inquired Mr.Pyecroft, asking the very question that was struggling at Mrs.De Peyster's lips.
"I told him I didn't have a key," said Matilda.
"Oh!" breathed Mrs.De Peyster.
"But," continued Matilda, "he said it didn't matter, for he said he'd been brought up a locksmith.

And he picked the lock right before my eyes." "That's one accomplishment of gentlemanliness I was never properly instructed in," said Mr.Pyecroft regretfully, almost plaintively.

"I never could pick a lock." "And where--is he now ?" inquired Mrs.De Peyster.
"In Mrs.De Peyster's sitting-room, retouching her desk." "He's certainly after something, and after it hot--and probably something big," mused Mr.Pyecroft.

"Any idea what it can be, Matilda ?" Matilda had none.
"Any idea, Angelica ?" Mrs.De Peyster was beginning to have an idea, and a terrified idea; but she likewise said she had none.
Mrs.De Peyster wished Mr.Pyecroft would go, so she could give way to her feelings, talk with Matilda.

But Mr.Pyecroft stretched out his legs, settled back, clasped his hands behind his head, and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling.