He gives the slightest of smiles and ducks his head, as if their captors would be alerted by more, as if they can't watch every last sliver of every last thing they do, say, even think for all he knows--"I'll be in touch," he says lightly.

Then he shoulders his violin: "If you'll pardon me. This is my workday." The word workday is touched by the palest shade of sarcasm.