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The Zeppelin's Passenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

October, 1999  [Etext #1931]
[Date last updated: October 25, 2005]


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This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.





The Zeppelin's Passenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim




CHAPTER I


"Never heard a sound," the younger of the afternoon callers
admitted, getting rid of his empty cup and leaning forward in his
low chair.  "No more tea, thank you, Miss Fairclough.  Done
splendidly, thanks.   No, I went to bed last night soon after
eleven--the Colonel had been route marching us all off our legs
--and I never awoke until reveille this morning.  Sleep of the
just, and all that sort of thing, but a jolly sell, all the same!
You hear anything of it, sir?" he asked, turning to his companion,
who was seated a few feet away.

Captain Griffiths shook his head.  He was a man considerably older
than his questioner, with long, nervous face, and thick black hair
streaked with grey.  His fingers were bony, his complexion, for a
soldier, curiously sallow, and notwithstanding his height, which
was considerable, he was awkward, at times almost uncouth.  His
voice was hard and unsympathetic, and his contributions to the
tea-table talk had been almost negligible.

"I was up until two o'clock, as it happened," he replied, "but I
knew nothing about the matter until it was brought to my notice
officially."

Helen Fairclough, who was doing the honours for Lady Cranston, her
absent hostess, assumed the slight air of superiority to which the
circumstances of the case entitled her.

"I heard it distinctly," she declared; "in fact it woke me up.  I
hung out of the window, and I could hear the engine just as plainly
as though it were over the golf links."

The young subaltern sighed.

"Rotten luck I have with these things," he confided.  "That's three
times they've been over, and I've neither heard nor seen one.  This
time they say that it had the narrowest shave on earth of coming
down.  Of course, you've heard of the observation car found on
Dutchman's Common this morning?"

The girl assented.

"Did you see it?" she enquired.

"Not a chance," was the gloomy reply.  "It was put on two covered
trucks and sent up to London by the first train.  Captain Griffiths
can tell you what it was like, I dare say.  You were down there,
weren't you, sir?"

"I superintended its removal," the latter informed them.  "It was
a very uninteresting affair."

"Any bombs in it?" Helen asked.

"Not a sign of one.  Just a hard seat, two sets of field-glasses and
a telephone.  It seems to have got caught in some trees and been
dragged off."

"How exciting!" the girl murmured.  "I suppose there wasn't any one
in it?"

Griffiths shook his head.

"I believe," he explained, "that these observation cars, although
they are attached to most of the Zeppelins, are seldom used in night
raids."

"I should like to have seen it, all the same," Helen confessed.

"You would have been disappointed," her informant assured her.
"By-the-by," he added, a little awkwardly, "are you not expecting
Lady Cranston back this evening?"

"I am expecting her every moment.  The car has gone down to the
station to meet her."

Captain Griffiths appeared to receive the news with a certain
undemonstrative satisfaction.  He leaned back in his chair with
the air of one who is content to wait.

"Have you heard, Miss Fairclough," his younger companion enquired,
a little diffidently, "whether Lady Cranston had any luck in town?"

Helen Fairclough looked away.  There was a slight mist before her
eyes.

"I had a letter this morning," she replied.  "She seems to have
heard nothing at all encouraging so far."

"And you haven't heard from Major Felstead himself, I suppose?"

The girl shook her head.

"Not a line," she sighed.  "It's two months now since we last had
a letter."

"Jolly bad luck to get nipped just as he was doing so well," the
young man observed sympathetically.

"It all seems very cruel," Helen agreed.  "He wasn't really fit to
go back, but the Board passed him because they were so short of
officers and he kept worrying them.  He was so afraid he'd get
moved to another battalion.  Then he was taken prisoner in that
horrible Pervais affair, and sent to the worst camp in Germany.
Since then, of course, Philippa and I have had a wretched time,
worrying."

"Major Felstead is Lady Cranston's only brother, is he not?"
Griffiths enquired.

"And my only fiancé," she replied, with a little grimace.  "However,
don't let us talk about our troubles any more," she continued, with
an effort at a lighter tone.  "You'll find some cigarettes on that
table, Mr. Harrison.  I can't think where Nora is.  I expect she
has persuaded some one to take her out trophy-hunting to Dutchman's
Common."

"The road all the way is like a circus," the young soldier observed,
"and there isn't a thing to be seen when you get there.  The naval
airmen were all over the place at daybreak, and Captain Griffiths
wasn't far behind them.  You didn't leave much for the sightseers,
sir," he concluded, turning to his neighbour.

"As Commandant of the place," Captain Griffiths replied, "I naturally
had to have the Common searched.  With the exception of the
observation car, however, I think that I am betraying no confidences
in telling you that we discovered nothing of interest."

"Do you suppose that the Zeppelin was in difficulties, as she was
flying so low?" Helen enquired.

"It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis," the Commandant assented.
"Two patrol boats were sent out early this morning, in search of her.
An old man whom I saw at Waburne declares that she passed like a
long, black cloud, just over his head, and that he was almost
deafened by the noise of the engines.  Personally, I cannot believe
that they would come down so low unless she was in some trouble."

The door of the comfortable library in which they were seated was
suddenly thrown open.  An exceedingly alert-looking young lady,
very much befreckled, and as yet unemancipated from the long
plaits of the schoolroom, came in like a whirlwind.  In her hand
she carried a man's Homburg hat, which she waved aloft in triumph.

"Come in, Arthur," she shouted to a young subaltern who was
hovering in the background.  "Look what I've got, Helen!  A trophy!
Just look, Mr. Harrison and Captain Griffiths!  I found it in a
bush, not twenty yards from where the observation car came down."

Helen turned the hat around in amused bewilderment.

"But, my dear child," she exclaimed, "this is nothing but an
ordinary hat!  People who travel in Zeppelins don't wear things
like that.  How do you do, Mr. Somerfield?" she added, smiling at
the young man who had followed Nora into the room.

"Don't they!" the latter retorted, with an air of superior
knowledge.  "Just look here!"

She turned down the lining and showed it to them.  "What do you
make of that?" she asked triumphantly.

Helen gazed at the gold-printed letters a little incredulously.

"Read it out," Nora insisted.

Helen obeyed:

               "Schmidt,
                    Berlin,
                         Unter den Linden, 127."

"That sounds German," she admitted.

"It's a trophy, all right," Nora declared.  "One of the crew--
probably the Commander--must have come on board in a hurry and
changed into uniform after they had started."

"It is my painful duty, Miss Nora," Harrison announced solemnly,
"to inform you, on behalf of Captain Griffiths, that all articles
of whatsoever description, found in the vicinity of Dutchman's
Common, which might possibly have belonged to any one in the
Zeppelin, must be sent at once to the War Office."

"Rubbish!" Nora scoffed.  "The War Office aren't going to have my
hat."

"Duty," the young man began--

"You can go back to the Depot and do your duty, then, Mr. Harrison,"
Nora interrupted, "but you're not going to have my hat.  I'd throw
it into the fire sooner than give it up."

"Military regulations must be obeyed, Miss Nora," Captain Griffiths
ventured thoughtfully.

"Nothing so important as hats," Harrison put in.  "You see they fit
--somebody."

The girl's gesture was irreverent but convincing.  "I'd listen to
anything Captain Griffiths had to say," she declared, "but you boys
who are learning to be soldiers are simply eaten up with conceit.
There's nothing in your textbook about hats.  If you're going to
make yourselves disagreeable about this, I shall simply ignore the
regiment."

The two young men fell into attitudes of mock dismay.  Nora took a
chocolate from a box.

"Be merciful, Miss Nora!" Harrison pleaded tearfully.

"Don't break the regiment up altogether," Somerfield begged, with a
little catch in his voice.

"All very well for you two to be funny," Nora went on, revisiting
the chocolate box, "but you've heard about the Seaforths coming,
haven't you?  I adore kilts, and so does Helen; don't you, Helen?"

"Every woman does," Helen admitted, smiling.  "I suppose the child
really can keep the hat, can't she?" she added, turning to the
Commandant.

"Officially the matter is outside my cognizance," he declared.  "I
shall have nothing to say."

The two young men exchanged glances.

"A hat," Somerfield ruminated, "especially a Homburg hat, is scarcely
an appurtenance of warfare."

His brother officer stood for a moment looking gravely at the object
in question.  Then he winked at Somerfield and sighed.

"I shall take the whole responsibility," he decided magnanimously,
"of saying nothing about the matter.  We can't afford to quarrel
with Miss Nora, can we, Somerfield?"

"Not on your life," that young man agreed.

"Sensible boys!" Nora pronounced graciously.

"Thank you very much, Captain Griffiths, for not encouraging them
in their folly.  You can take me as far as the post-office when
you go, Arthur," she continued, turning to the fortunate possessor
of the side-car, "and we'll have some golf to-morrow afternoon, if
you like."

"Won't Mr. Somerfield have some tea?" Helen invited.

"Thank you very much, Miss Fairclough," the man replied; "we had
tea some time ago at Watson's, where I found Miss Nora."

Nora suddenly held up her finger.  "Isn't that the car?" she asked.
"Why, it must be mummy, here already.  Yes, I can hear her voice!"

Griffiths, who had moved eagerly towards the window, looked back.

"It is Lady Cranston," he announced solemnly.



CHAPTER II


The woman who paused for a moment upon the threshold of the library,
looking in upon the little company, was undeniably beautiful.  She
had masses of red-gold hair, a little disordered by her long
railway journey, deep-set hazel eyes, a delicate, almost
porcelain-like complexion, and a sensitive, delightfully shaped
mouth.  Her figure was small and dainty, and just at that moment she
had an appearance of helplessness which was almost childlike.  Nora,
after a vigorous embrace, led her stepmother towards a chair.

"Come and sit by the fire, Mummy," she begged.  "You look tired and
cold."

Philippa exchanged a general salutation with her guests.  She was
still wearing her travelling coat, and her air of fatigue was
unmistakable.  Griffiths, who had not taken his eyes off her since
her entrance, wheeled an easy-chair towards the hearth-rug, into
which she sank with a murmured word of thanks.

"You'll have some tea, won't you, dear?" Helen enquired.

Philippa shook her head.  Her eyes met her friend's for a moment
--it was only a very brief glance, but the tragedy of some mutual
sorrow seemed curiously revealed in that unspoken question and
answer.  The two young subalterns prepared to take their leave.
Nora, kneeling down, stroked her stepmother's hand.

"No news at all, then?" Helen faltered.

"None," was the weary reply.

"Any amount of news here, Mummy," Nora intervened cheerfully, "and
heaps of excitement.  We had a Zeppelin over Dutchman's Common last
night, and she lost her observation car.  Mr. Somerfield took me
up there this afternoon, and I found a German hat.  No one else got
a thing, and, would you believe it, those children over there tried
to take it away from me."

Her stepmother smiled faintly.

"I expect you are keeping the hat, dear," she observed.

"I should say so!" Nora assented.

Philippa held out her hand to the two young men who had been waiting
to take their leave.

"You must come and dine one night this week, both of you," she said.
"My husband will be home by the later train this evening, and I'm
sure he will be glad to have you."

"Very kind of you, Lady Cranston, we shall be delighted," Harrison
declared.

"Rather!" his companion echoed.

Nora led them away, and Helen, with a word of excuse, followed them.
Griffiths, who had also risen to his feet, came a little nearer to
Philippa's chair.

"And you, too, of course, Captain Griffiths," she said, smiling
pleasantly up at him.  "Must you hurry away?"

"I will stay, if I may, until Miss Fairclough returns," he answered,
resuming his seat.

"Do!" Philippa begged him.  "I have had such a miserable time in
town.  You can't think how restful it is to be back here."

"I am afraid," he observed, "that your journey has not been
successful."

Philippa shook her head.

"It has been completely unsuccessful," she sighed.  "I have not
been able to hear a word about my brother.  I am so sorry for poor
Helen, too.  They were only engaged, you know, a few days before he
left for the front this last time."

Captain Griffiths nodded sympathetically.

"I never met Major Felstead," he remarked, "but every one who has
seems to like him very much.  He was doing so well, too, up to that
last unfortunate affair, wasn't he?"

"Dick is a dear," Philippa declared.  "I never knew any one with so
many friends.  He would have been commanding his battalion now, if
only he were free.  His colonel wrote and told me so himself."

"I wish there were something I could do," Griffiths murmured, a
little awkwardly.  "It hurts me, Lady Cranston, to see you so upset."

She looked at him for a moment in faint surprise.

"Nobody can do anything," she bemoaned.  "That is the unfortunate
part of it all."

He rose to his feet and was immediately conscious, as he always was
when he stood up, that there was a foot or two of his figure which
he had no idea what to do with.

"You wouldn't feel like a ride to-morrow morning, Lady Cranston?" he
asked, with a wistfulness which seemed somehow stifled in his rather
unpleasant voice.  She shook her head.

"Perhaps one morning later," she replied, a little vaguely.  "I
haven't any heart for anything just now."

He took a sombre but agitated leave of his hostess, and went out
into the twilight, cursing his lack of ease, remembering the things
which he had meant to say, and hating himself for having forgotten
them.  Philippa, to whom his departure had been, as it always was,
a relief, was already leaning forward in her chair with her arm
around Helen's neck.

"I thought that extraordinary man would never go," she exclaimed,
"and I was longing to send for you, Helen.  London has been such a
dreary chapter of disappointments."

"What a sickening time you must have had, dear!"

"It was horrid," Philippa assented sadly, "but you know Henry is
no use at all, and I should have felt miserable unless I had gone.
I have been to every friend at the War Office, and every friend
who has friends there.  I have made every sort of enquiry, and I
know just as much now as I did when I left here--that Richard was
a prisoner at Wittenberg the last time they heard, and that they
have received no notification whatever concerning him for the last
two months."

Helen glanced at the calendar.

"It is just two months to-day," she said mournfully, "since we heard."

"And then," Philippa sighed, "he hadn't received a single one of our
parcels."

Helen rose suddenly to her feet.  She was a tall, fair girl of the
best Saxon type, slim but not in the least angular, with every
promise, indeed, of a fuller and more gracious development in the
years to come.  She was barely twenty-two years old, and, as is
common with girls of her complexion, seemed younger.  Her bright,
intelligent face was, above all, good-humoured.  Just at that moment,
however, there was a flush of passionate anger in her cheeks.

"It makes me feel almost beside myself," she exclaimed, "this
hideous incapacity for doing anything!  Here we are living in luxury,
without a single privation, whilst Dick, the dearest thing on
earth to both of us, is being starved and goaded to death in a foul
German prison!"

"We mustn't believe that it's quite so bad as that, dear," Philippa
remonstrated.  "What is it, Mills?"

The elderly man-servant who had entered with a tray in his band,
bowed as he arranged it upon a side table.

"I have taken the liberty of bringing in a little fresh tea, your
ladyship," he announced, "and some hot buttered toast.  Cook has
sent some of the sandwiches, too, which your ladyship generally
fancies."

"It is very kind of you, Mills," Philippa said, with rather a wan
little smile.  "I had some tea at South Lynn, but it was very bad.
You might take my coat, please."

She stood up, and the heavy fur coat slipped easily away from her
slim, elegant little body.

"Shall I light up, your ladyship?" Mills enquired.

"You might light a lamp," Philippa directed, "but don't draw the
blinds until lighting-up time.  After the noise of London," she went
on, turning to Helen, "I always think that the faint sound of the
sea is so restful."

The man moved noiselessly about the room and returned once more to
his mistress.

"We should be glad to hear, your ladyship," he said, "if there is
any news of Major Felstead?"  Philippa shook her head.

"None at all, I am sorry to say, Mills!  Still, we must hope for
the best.  I dare say that some of these camps are not so bad as
we imagine."

"We must hope not, your ladyship," was the somewhat dismal reply.
"Shall I fasten the windows?"

"You can leave them until you draw the blinds, Mills," Philippa
directed.  "I am not at home, if any one should call.  See that
we are undisturbed for a little time."

"Very good, your ladyship."

The door was closed, and the two women were once more alone.
Philippa held out her arms.

"Helen, darling, come and be nice to me," she begged.  "Let us both
pretend that no news is good news.  Oh, I know what you are
suffering, but remember that even if Dick is your lover, he is my
dear, only brother--my twin brother, too.  We have been so much to
each other all our lives.  He'll stick it out, dear, if any human
being can.  We shall have him back with us some day."

"But he is hungry," Helen sobbed.  "I can't bear to think of his
being hungry.  Every time I sit down to eat, it almost chokes me."

"I suppose he has forgotten what a whisky and soda is like,"
Philippa murmured, with a little catch in her own throat.

"He always used to love one about this time," Helen faltered,
glancing at the clock.

"And cigarettes!" Philippa exclaimed.  "I wonder whether they give
him anything to smoke."

"Nasty German tobacco, if they do," Helen rejoined indignantly.
"And to think that I have sent him at least six hundred of his
favourite Egyptians!"

She fell once more on her knees by her friend's side.  Their arms
were intertwined, their cheeks touching.  One of those strange,
feminine silences of acute sympathy seemed to hold them for a while
under its thrall.  Then, almost at the same moment, a queer
awakening came for both of them.  Helen's arm was stiffened.
Philippa turned her head, but her eyes were filled with incredulous
fear.  A little current of cool air was blowing through the room.
The French windows stood half open, and with his back to them, a
man who had apparently entered the room from the gardens and passed
noiselessly across the soft carpet, was standing by the door,
listening.  They heard him turn the key.  Then, in a businesslike
manner, he returned to the windows and closed them, the eyes of
the two women following him all the time.  Satisfied, apparently,
with his precautions, he turned towards them just as an expression
of indignant enquiry broke from Philippa's lips.  Helen sprang to
her feet, and Philippa gripped the sides of her chair.  The newcomer
advanced a few steps nearer to them.



CHAPTER III


It seemed to the two women, brief though the period of actual
silence was, that in those few seconds they jointly conceived
definite and lasting impressions of the man who was to become,
during the next few weeks, an object of the deepest concern to
both of them.  The intruder was slightly built, of little more than
medium height, of dark complexion, with an almost imperceptible
moustache of military pattern, black hair dishevelled with the
wind, and eyes of almost peculiar brightness.  He carried himself
with an assurance which was somewhat remarkable considering the
condition of his torn and mud stained clothes, the very quality
of which was almost undistinguishable.  They both, curiously enough,
formed the same instinctive conviction that, notwithstanding his
tramplike appearance and his burglarious entrance, this was not a
person to be greatly feared.

The stranger brushed aside Philippa's incoherent exclamation and
opened the conversation with some ceremony.

"Ladies," he began, with a low bow, "in the first place let me
offer my most profound apologies for this unusual form of entrance
to your house."

Philippa rose from her easy-chair and confronted him.  The firelight
played upon her red-gold hair, and surprise had driven the weariness
from her face.  Against the black oak of the chimneypiece she had
almost the appearance of a framed cameo.  Her voice was quite steady,
although its inflection betrayed some indignation.

"Will you kindly explain who you are and what you mean by this
extraordinary behaviour?" she demanded.

"It is my earnest intention to do so without delay," he assured her,
his eyes apparently rivetted upon Philippa.  "Kindly pardon me."

He held out his arm to stop Helen, who, with her eye upon the bell,
had made a stealthy attempt to slip past him.  Her eyes flashed as
she felt his fingers upon her arm.

"How dare you attempt to stop me!" she exclaimed.

"My dear Miss Fairclough," he remonstrated, "in the interests of all
of us, it is better that we should have a few moments of undisturbed
conversation.  I am taking it for granted that I have the pleasure
of addressing Miss Fairclough?"

There was something about the man's easy confidence which was, in
its way, impressive yet irritating.  Helen appeared bereft of words
and retreated to her place almost mildly.  Philippa's very delicate
eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown.

"You are acquainted with our names, then?"

"Perfectly," was the suave reply.  "You, I presume, are Lady Cranston?
I may be permitted to add," he went on, looking at her steadfastly,
"that the description from which I recognise you does you less than
justice."

"I find that remark, under the circumstances, impertinent," Philippa
told him coldly.

He shrugged his shoulders.  There was a slight smile upon his lips
and his eyes twinkled.

"Alas!" he murmured, "for the moment I forgot the somewhat unusual
circumstances of our meeting.  Permit me to offer you what I trust
you will accept as the equivalent of a letter of introduction."

"A letter of introduction," Philippa repeated, glancing at his
disordered clothes, "and you come in through the window!"

"Believe me," the intruder assured her, "it was the only way."

"Perhaps you will tell me, then," Philippa demanded, her anger
gradually giving way to bewilderment, "what is wrong with my front
door?"

"For all I know, dear lady," the newcomer confessed, "yours may be
an excellent front door.  I would ask you, however, to consider my
appearance I have been obliged to conclude the last few miles of
my journey in somewhat ignominious fashion.  My clothes--they were
quite nice clothes, too, when I started," he added, looking down at
himself ruefully--"have suffered.  And, as you perceive, I have
lost my hat."

"Your hat?" Helen exclaimed, with a sudden glance at Nora's trophy.

"Precisely!  I might have posed before your butler, perhaps, as
belonging to what you call the hatless brigade, but the mud upon
my clothes, and these unfortunate rents in my garments, would have
necessitated an explanation which I thought better avoided.  I make
myself quite clear, I trust?"

"Clear?" Philippa murmured helplessly.

"Clear?" Helen echoed, with a puzzled frown.

"I mean, of course," their visitor explained, "so far as regards my
choosing this somewhat surreptitious form of entrance into your
house."

Philippa shrugged her shoulders and made a determined move towards
the bell.  The intruder, however, barred her way.  She looked up
into his face and found it difficult to maintain her indignation.
His expression, besides being distinctly pleasant, was full of a
respectful admiration.

"Will you please let me pass?" she insisted.

"Madam," he replied, "I am afraid that it is your intention to ring
the bell."

"Of course it is," she admitted.  "Don't dare to prevent me."

"Madam, I do not wish to prevent you," he assured her.  "A few
moments' delay--that is all I plead for."

"Will you explain at once, sir," Philippa demanded, "what you mean
by forcing your way into my house in this extraordinary fashion, and
by locking that door?"

"I am most anxious to do so," was the prompt reply.  "I am correct,
of course, in my first surmise that you are Lady Cranston--and you
Miss Fairclough?" he added, bowing ceremoniously to both of them.
"A very great pleasure!  I recognised you both quite easily, you see,
from your descriptions."

"From our descriptions?" Philippa repeated.

The newcomer bowed.

"The descriptions, glowing, indeed, but by no means exaggerated,
of your brother Richard, Lady Cranston, and your fiancé, Miss
Fairclough."

"Richard?" Philippa almost shrieked.

"You have seen Dick?" Helen gasped.

The intruder dived in his pockets and produced two sealed envelopes.
He handed one each simultaneously to Helen and to Philippa.

"My letters of introduction," he explained, with a little sigh of
relief.  "I trust that during their perusal you will invite me to
have some tea.  I am almost starving."

The two women hastened towards the lamp.

"One moment, I beg," their visitor interposed.  "I have established,
I trust, my credentials.  May I remind you that I was compelled to
ensure the safety of these few minutes' conversation with you, by
locking that door.  Are you likely to be disturbed?"

"No, no!  No chance at all," Philippa assured him.

"If we are, we'll explain," Helen promised.

"In that case," the intruder begged, "perhaps you will excuse me."

He moved towards the door and softly turned the key, then he drew
the curtains carefully across the French windows.  Afterwards he
made his way towards the tea-table.  A little throbbing cry had
broken from Helen's lips.

"Philippa," she exclaimed, "it's from Dick!  It's Dick's handwriting!"

Philippa's reply was incoherent.  She was tearing open her own
envelope.  With a well-satisfied smile, the bearer of these
communications seized a sandwich in one hand and poured himself out
some tea with the other.  He ate and drank with the restraint of
good-breeding, but with a voracity which gave point to his plea of
starvation.  A few yards away, the breathless silence between the
two women had given place to an almost hysterical series of
disjointed exclamations.

"It's from Dick!" Helen repeated.  "It's his own dear handwriting.
How shaky it is!  He's alive and well, Philippa, and he's found a
friend."

"I know--I know," Philippa murmured tremulously.  "Our parcels have
been discovered, and he got them all at once.  Just fancy, Helen,
he's really not so ill, after all!"

They drew a little closer together.

"You read yours out first," Helen proposed, "and then I'll read mine."

Philippa nodded.  Her voice here and there was a little uncertain.

  MY DEAREST SISTER,

  I have heard nothing from you or Helen for so long that I was
  really getting desperate.  I have had a very rough time here,
  but by the grace of Providence I stumbled up against an old
  friend the other day, Bertram Maderstrom, whom you must have
  heard me speak of in my college days.  It isn't too much to say
  that he has saved my life.  He has unearthed your parcels, found
  me decent quarters, and I am getting double rations.  He has
  promised, too, to get this letter through to you.

  You needn't worry about me now, dear.  I am feeling twice the
  man I was a month ago, and I shall stick it out now quite easily.

  Write me as often as ever you can.  Your letters and Helen's make
  all the difference.

  My love to you and to Henry.
                                 Your affectionate brother, RICHARD.

  P.S.  Is Henry an Admiral yet?  I suppose he was in the Jutland
  scrap, which they all tell us here was a great German victory.  I
  hope he came out all right.

Philippa read the postscript with a little shiver. Then she set her
teeth as though determined to ignore it.

"Isn't it wonderful!" she exclaimed, turning towards Helen with
glowing eyes.  "Now yours, dear?"

Helen's voice trembled as she read.  Her eyes, too, at times were
misty:

  DEAREST,

  I am writing to you so differently because I feel that you will
  really get this letter.  I have bad an astonishing stroke of luck,
  as you will gather from Philippa's note.  You can't imagine the
  difference.  A month ago I really thought I should have to chuck
  it in.  Now I am putting on flesh every day and beginning to feel
  myself again.  I owe my life to a pal with whom I was at college,
  and whom you and I, dearest, will have to remember all our lives.

  I think of you always, and my thoughts are like the flowers of
  which we see nothing in these hideous huts.  My greatest joy is
  in dreaming of the day when we shall meet again.

  Write to me often, sweetheart.  Your letters and my thoughts of
  you are the one joy of my life.

                                               Always your lover,
                                                       DICK.

There were a few moments of significant silence.  The girls were
leaning together, their arms around one another's necks, their heads
almost touching.  Behind them, their visitor continued to eat and
drink.  He rose at last, however, reluctantly to his feet, and
coughed.  They started, suddenly remembering his presence.  Philippa
turned impulsively towards him with outstretched hands.

"I can't tell you how thankful we are to you," she declared.

"Both of us," Helen echoed.

He touched with his fingers a box of cigarettes which stood upon the
tea-table.

"You permit?" he asked.

"Of course," Philippa assented eagerly.  "You will find some matches
on the tray there.  Do please help yourself.  I am afraid that I
must have seemed very discourteous, but this has all been so amazing.
Won't you have some fresh tea and some toast, or wouldn't you like
some more sandwiches?"

"Nothing more at present, thank you," he replied.  "If you do not
mind, I would rather continue our conversation."

"These letters are wonderful," Philippa told him gratefully.  "You
know from whom they come, of course.  Dick is my twin brother, and
until the war we had scarcely ever been parted.  Miss Fairclough
here is engaged to be married to him.  It is quite two months since
we had a line, and I myself have been in London for the last three
days, three very weary days, making enquiries everywhere."

"I am very happy," he said, "to have brought you such good news."

Once more the normal aspect of the situation began to reimpose
itself upon the two women.  They remembered the locked door, the
secrecy of their visitor's entrance, and his disordered condition.

"May I ask to whom we are indebted for this great service?" Philippa
enquired.

"My name for the present is Hamar Lessingham," was the suave reply.

"For the present?" Philippa repeated.  "You have perhaps, some
explanations to make," she went on, with some hesitation; "the
condition of your clothes, your somewhat curious form of entrance?"

"With your permission."

"One moment," Helen intervened eagerly.  "Is it possible, Mr.
Lessingham, that you have seen Major Felstead lately?"

"A matter of fifty-six hours ago, Miss Fairclough.  I am happy to
tell you that he was looking, under the circumstances, quite
reasonably well."

Helen caught up a photograph from the table by her side, and came
over to their visitor's side.

"This was taken just before he went out the first time," she
continued.  "Is he anything like that now?"

Mr. Hamar Lessingham sighed and shook his head.

"You must expect," he warned her, "that prison and hospital have
had their effect upon him.  He was gaining strength every day,
however, when I left."

Philippa held out her hand.  She had been looking curiously at
their visitor.

"Helen, dear, afterwards we will get Mr. Lessingham to talk to us
about Dick," she insisted.  "First there are some questions which
I must ask."

He bowed slightly and drew himself up.  For a moment it seemed as
though they were entering upon a duel--the slight, beautiful woman
and the man in rags.

"Just now," she began, "you told us that you saw Major Felstead, my
brother, fifty-six hours ago."

"That is so," he assented.

"But it is impossible!" she pointed out.  "My brother is a prisoner
of war in Germany."

"Precisely," he replied, "and not, I am afraid, under the happiest
conditions, he has been unfortunate in his camp.  Let us talk about
him, shall we?"

"Are you mad," Helen demanded, "or are you trying to confuse us?"

"My dear young lady!" he protested.  "Why suppose such a thing?  I
was flattering myself that my conversation and deportment were,
under the circumstances, perfectly rational."

"But you are talking nonsense," Philippa insisted.  "You say that
you saw Major Felstead fifty-six hours ago.  You cannot mean us to
believe that fifty-six hours ago you were at Wittenberg."

"That is precisely what I have been trying to tell you," he agreed.

"But it isn't possible!" Helen gasped.

"Quite, I assure you," he continued; "in fact, we should have been
here before but for a little uncertainty as to your armaments along
the coast.  There was a gun, we were told, somewhere near here,
which we were credibly informed had once been fired without the
slightest accident."

Philippa's eyes seemed to grow larger and rounder.

"He's raving!" she decided.

"He isn't!" Helen cried, with sudden divination.  "Is that your hat?"
she asked, pointing to the table where Nora had left her trophy.

"It is," he admitted with a smile, "but I do not think that I will
claim it."

"You were in the observation car of that Zeppelin!"

Lessingham extended his hand.

"Softly, please," he begged.  "You have, I gather, arrived at the
truth, but for the moment shall it be our secret?  I made an
exceedingly uncomfortable, not to say undignified descent from the
Zeppelin which passed over Dutchman's Common last night."

"Then," Philippa cried, "you are a German!"

"My dear lady, I have escaped that misfortune," Lessingham
confessed.  "Do you think that none other than Germans ride in
Zeppelins?"



CHAPTER IV


A new tenseness seemed to have crept into the situation.  The
conversation, never without its emotional tendencies, at once
changed its character.  Philippa, cold and reserved, with a threat
lurking all the time in her tone and manner, became its guiding
spirit.

"We may enquire your name?" she asked.

"I am the Baron Maderstrom," was the prompt reply.  "For the purpose
of my brief residence in this country, however, I fancy that the
name of Mr. Hamar Lessingham might provoke less comment."

"Maderstrom," Philippa repeated.  "You were at Magdalen with my
brother."

"For three terms," he assented.

"You have visited at Wood Norton.  It was only an accident, then,
that I did not meet you."

"It is true," he answered, with a bow.  "I received the most charming
hospitality there from your father and mother."

"Why, you are the friend," Helen exclaimed, suddenly seizing his
hands, "of whom Dick speaks in his letter!"

"It has been my great privilege to have been of service to Major
Felstead," was the grave admission.  "He and I, during our college
days, were more than ordinarily intimate.  I saw his name in one of
the lists of prisoners, and I went at once to Wittenberg."

A fresh flood of questions was upon Helen's lips, but Philippa
brushed her away.

"Please let me speak," she said.  "You have brought us these letters
from Richard, for which we offer you our heartfelt thanks, but you
did not risk your liberty, perhaps your life, to come here simply
as his ambassador.  There is something beyond this in your visit to
this country.  You may be a Swede, but is it not true that at the
present moment you are in the service of an enemy?"

Lessingham bowed acquiescence.

"You are entirely right," he murmured.

"Am I also right in concluding that you have some service to ask
of us?"

"Your directness, dear lady, moves me to admiration," Lessingham
assured her.  "I am here to ask a trifling favour in return for
those which I have rendered and those which I may yet render to your
brother."

"And that favour?"

Their visitor looked down at his torn attire.

"A suit of your brother's clothes," he replied, "and a room in which
to change.  The disposal of these rags I may leave, I presume, to
your ingenuity."

"Anything else?"

"It is my wish," he continued, "to remain in this neighbourhood for
a short time--perhaps a fortnight and perhaps a month.  I should
value your introduction to the hotel here, and the extension of
such hospitality as may seem fitting to you, under the circumstances."

"As Mr. Hamar Lessingham?"

"Beyond a doubt."

There was a moment's silence.  Philippa's face had become almost
stony.  She took a step towards the telephone.  Lessingham, however,
held out his hand.

"Your purpose?" he enquired.

"I am going to ring up the Commandant here," she told him, "and
explain your presence in this house."

"An heroic impulse," he observed, "but too impulsive."

"We shall see," she retorted.  "Will you let me pass?"

His fingers restrained her as gently as possible.

"Let me make a reasonable appeal to both of you," he suggested.
"I am here at your mercy.  I promise you that under no circumstances
will I attempt any measure of violence.  From any fear of that, I
trust my name and my friendship with your brother will be sufficient
guarantee."

"Continue, then," Philippa assented.

"You will give me ten minutes in which to state my case," he begged.

"We must!" Helen exclaimed.  "We must, Philippa!  Please!"

"You shall have your ten minutes," Philippa conceded.

He abandoned his attitude of watchfulness and moved back on to the
hearth-rug, his hands behind him.  He addressed himself to Philippa.
It was Philippa who had become his judge.

"I will claim nothing from you," he began, "for the services which
I have rendered to Richard.  Our friendship was a real thing, and,
finding him in such straits, I would gladly, under any circumstances,
have done all that I have done.  I am well paid for this by the
thanks which you have already proffered me."

"No thanks--nothing that we could do for you would be sufficient
recompense," Helen declared energetically.

"Let me speak for a moment of the future," he continued.  "Supposing
you ring that telephone and hand me over to the authorities here?
Well, that will be the end of me, without a doubt.  You will have
done what seemed to you to be the right thing, and I hope that that
consciousness will sustain you, for, believe me, though it may not
be at my will, your brother's life will most certainly answer for
mine."

There was a slight pause.  A sob broke from Helen's throat.  Even
Philippa's lip quivered.

"Forgive me," he went on, "if that sounds like a threat.  It was not
so meant.  It is the simple truth.  Let me hurry on to the future.
I ask so little of you.  It is my duty to live in this spot for one
month.  What harm can I do?  You have no great concentration of
soldiers here, no docks, no fortifications, no industry.  And in
return for the slight service of allowing me to remain here
unmolested, I pledge my word that Richard shall be set at liberty
and shall be here with you within two months."

Helen's face was transformed, her eyes glowed, her lips were parted
with eagerness.  She turned towards Philippa, her expression, her
whole attitude an epitome of eloquent pleading.

"Philippa, you will not hesitate?  You cannot?"

"I must," Philippa answered, struggling with her agitation.  "I love
Dick more dearly than anything else on earth, but just now, Helen,
we have to remember, before everything, that we are English women.
We have to put our human feelings behind us.  We are learning every
day to make sacrifices.  You, too, must learn, dear.  My answer to
you, Baron Maderstrom--or Mr. Lessingham, as you choose to call
yourself--is no."

"Philippa, you are mad!" Helen exclaimed passionately.  "Didn't I
have to realise all that you say when I let Dick go, cheerfully,
the day after we were engaged?  Haven't I realised the duty of
cheerfulness and sacrifice through all these weary months?  But
there is a limit to these things, Philippa, a sense of proportion
which must be taken into account.  It's Dick's life which is in
the balance against some intangible thing, nothing that we could
ever reproach ourselves with, nothing that could bring real harm
upon any one.  Oh, I love my country, too, but I want Dick!  I
should feel like his murderess all my life, if I didn't consent!"

"It occurs to me," Lessingham remarked, turning towards Philippa,
"that Miss Fairclough's point of view is one to be considered."

"Doesn't all that Miss Fairclough has said apply to me?" Philippa
demanded, with a little break in her voice.  "Richard is my twin
brother, he is the dearest thing in life to me.  Can't you realise,
though, that what you ask of us is treason?"

"It really doesn't amount to that," Lessingham assured her.  "In my
own heart I feel convinced that I have come here on a fool's errand.
No object that I could possibly attain in this neighbourhood is
worth the life of a man like Richard Felstead."

"Oh, he's right!" Helen exclaimed.  "Think, Philippa!  What is there
here which the whole world might not know?  There are no secrets in
Dreymarsh.  We are miles away from everywhere.  For my sake,
Philippa, I implore you not to be unreasonable."

"In plain words," Lessingham intervened, "do not be quixotic, Lady
Cranston.  There is just an idea on one side, your brother's life
on the other.  You see, the scales do not balance."

"Can't you realise, though," Philippa answered, "what that idea
means?  It is part of one's soul that one gives when one departs
from a principle."

"What are principles against love?" Helen demanded, almost fiercely.
"A sister may prate about them, Philippa.  A wife couldn't.  I'd
sacrifice every principle I ever had, every scrap of self-respect,
myself and all that belongs to me, to save Dick's life!"

There was a brief, throbbing silence.  Helen was feverishly clutching
Philippa's hand.  Lessingham's eyes were fixed upon the tortured face
into which he gazed.  There were no women like this in his own
country.

"Dear lady," he said, and for the first time his own voice shook,
"I abandon my arguments.  I beg you to act as you think best for
your own future happiness.  The chances of life or death are not
great things for either men like your brother or for me.  I would
not purchase my end, nor he his life, at the expense of your
suffering.  You see, I stand on one side.  The telephone is there
for your use."

"You shan't use it!" Helen cried passionately.  "Phillipa, you
shan't!"

Philippa turned towards her, and all the stubborn pride had gone
out of her face.  Her great eyes were misty with tears, her mouth
was twitching with emotion.  She threw her arms around Helen's neck.

"My dear, I can't!  I can't!" she sobbed.



CHAPTER V


Philippa's breakdown was only momentary.  With a few brusque words
she brought the other two down to the level of her newly recovered
equanimity.

"To be practical," she began, "we have no time to lose.  I will go
and get a suit of Dick's clothes, and, Helen, you had better take
Mr. Lessingham into the gun room.  Afterwards, perhaps you will have
time to ring up the hotel."

Lessingham took a quick step towards her,--almost as though he were
about to make some impetuous withdrawal.  Philippa turned and met his
almost pleading gaze.  Perhaps she read there his instinct of
self-abnegation.

"I am in command of the situation," she continued, a little more
lightly.  "Every one must please obey me.  I shan't be more than
five minutes."

She left the room, waving back Lessingham's attempt to open the
door for her.  He stood for a moment looking at the place where
she had vanished.  Then he turned round.

"Major Felstead's description," he said quietly, "did not do his
sister justice."

"Philippa is a dear," Helen declared enthusiastically.  "Just for
a moment, though, I was terrified.  She has a wonderful will."

"How long has she been married?"

"About six years."

"Are there--any children?"

Helen shook her head.

"Sir Henry had a daughter by his first wife, who lives with us."

"Six years!" Lessingham repeated.  "Why, she seems no more than a
child.  Sir Henry must be a great deal her senior."

"Sixteen years," Helen told him.  "Philippa is twenty-nine.  And now,
don't be inquisitive any more, please, and come with me.  I want to
show you where to change your clothes."

She opened a door on the other side of the room, and pointed to a
small apartment across the passage.

"If you'll wait in there," she begged, "I'll bring the clothes to
you directly they come.  I am going to telephone now."

"So many thanks," he answered.  "I should like a pleasant bedroom
and sitting room, and a bathroom if possible.  My luggage you will
find already there.  A friend in London has seen to that."

She looked at him curiously.

"You are very thorough, aren't you?" she remarked.

"The people of the country whom it is my destiny to serve all are,"
he replied.  "One weak link, you know, may sometimes spoil the
mightiest chain."

She closed the door and took up the telephone.

"Number three, please," she began.  "Are you the hotel?  The manager?
Good!  I am speaking for Lady Cranston.  She wishes a sitting-room,
bedroom and bath-room reserved for a friend of ours who is arriving
to-day--a Mr. Hamar Lessingham.  You have his luggage already, I
believe.  Please do the best you can for him.--Certainly.--Thank
you very much."

She set down the receiver.  The door was quickly opened and shut.
Philippa reappeared, carrying an armful of clothes.

"Why, you've brought his grey suit," Helen cried in dismay, "the
one he looks so well in!"

"Don't be an idiot," Philippa scoffed.  "I had to bring the first
I could find.  Take them in to Mr. Lessingham, and for heaven's
sake see that he hurries!  Henry's train is due, and he may be here
at any moment."

"I'll tell him," Helen promised.  "I'll smuggle him out of the back
way, if you like."

Philippa laughed a little drearily.

"A nice start that would be, if any one ever traced his arrival!"
she observed.  "No, we must try and get him away before Henry comes,
but, if the worst comes to the worst, we'll have him in and
introduce him.  Henry isn't likely to notice anything," she added,
a little bitterly.

Helen disappeared with the clothes and returned almost immediately,
Philippa was sitting in her old position by the fire.

"You're not worrying about this, dear, are you?" the former asked
anxiously.

"I don't know," Philippa replied, without turning her head.  "I don't
know what may come of it, Helen.  I have a queer sort of feeling
about that man."

Helen sighed.  "I suppose," she confessed, "I am the narrowest
person on earth.  I can think of one thing, and one thing only.
If Mr. Lessingham keeps his word, Dick will be here perhaps in a
month, perhaps six weeks--certainly soon!"

"He will keep his word," Philippa said quietly.  "He is that sort
of man."

The door on the other side of the room was softly opened.
Lessingham's head appeared.

"Could I have a necktie?" he asked diffidently.  Philippa stretched
out her hand and took one from the basket by her side.

"Better give him this," she said, handing it over to Helen.  "It is
one of Henry's which I was mending.--Stop!"

She put up her finger.  They all listened.

"The car!" Philippa exclaimed, rising hastily to her feet.  "That
is Henry!  Go out with Mr. Lessingham, Helen," she continued, "and
wait until he is ready.  Don't forget that he is an ordinary caller,
and bring him in presently."

Helen nodded understandingly and hurried out.

Philippa moved a few steps towards the other door.  In a moment it
was thrown open.  Nora appeared, with her arm through her father's.

"I went to meet him, Mummy," she explained.  "No uniform--isn't it
a shame!"

Sir Henry patted her cheek and turned to greet his wife.  There was
a shadow upon his bronzed, handsome face as he watched her rather
hesitating approach.

"Sorry I couldn't catch your train, Phil," he told her.  "I had to
make a call in the city so I came down from Liverpool Street.  Any
luck?"

She held his hands, resisting for the moment his proffered embrace.

"Henry," she said earnestly, "do you know I am so much more anxious
to hear your news."

"Mine will keep," he replied.  "What about Richard?"

She shook her head.

"I spent the whole of my time making enquiries," she sighed, "and
every one was fruitless.  I failed to get the least satisfaction
from any one at the War Office.  They know nothing, have heard
nothing."

"I'm ever so sorry to hear it," Sir Henry declared sympathetically.
"You mustn't worry too much, though, dear.  Where's Helen?"

"She is in the gun room with a caller."

"With a caller?" Nora exclaimed.  "Is it any one from the Depot?
I must go and see."

"You needn't trouble," her stepmother replied.  "Here they are,
coming in."

The door on the opposite side of the room was suddenly opened, and
Hamar Lessingham and Helen entered together.  Lessingham was
entirely at his ease,--their conversation, indeed, seemed almost
engrossing.  He came at once across the room on realising Sir
Henry's presence.

"This is Mr. Hamar Lessingham--my husband," Philippa said.  "Mr.
Lessingham was at college with Dick, Henry, so of course Helen and
he have been indulging in all sorts of reminiscences."

The two men shook hands.

"I found time also to examine your Leech prints," Lessingham remarked.
"You have some very admirable examples."

"Quite a hobby of mine in my younger days," Sir Henry admitted.
"One or two of them are very good, I believe.  Are you staying in
these parts long, Mr. Lessingham?"

"Perhaps for a week or two," was the somewhat indifferent reply.
"I am told that this is the most wonderful air in the world, so I
have come down here to pull up again after a slight illness."

"A dreary spot just now," Sir Henry observed, "but the air's all
right.  Are you a sea-fisherman, by any chance, Mr. Lessingham?"

"I have done a little of it," the visitor confessed.  Sir Henry's
face lit up.  He drew from his pocket a small, brown paper parcel.

"I don't mind telling you," he confided as he cut the string, "that
I don't think there's another sport like it in the world.  I have
tried most of them, too.  When I was a boy I was all for shooting,
perhaps because I could never get enough.  Then I had a season or
two at Melton, though I was never much of a horseman.  But for real,
unadulterated excitement, for sport that licks everything else into
a cocked hat, give me a strong sea rod, a couple of traces, just
enough sea to keep on the bottom all the time, and the codling
biting.  Look here, did you ever see a mackerel spinner like that?"
he added, drawing one out of the parcel which he had untied.  "Look
at it, all of you."

Lessingham took it gingerly in his fingers.  Philippa, a little
ostentatiously, turned her back upon the two men and took up a
newspaper.

"Lady Cranston does not sympathize with my interest in any sort of
sport just now," Sir Henry explained good-humouredly.  "All the
same I argue that one must keep one's mind occupied somehow or
other."

"Quite right, Dad!" Nora agreed.  "We must carry on, as the Colonel
says.  All the same, I did hope you'd come down in a new naval
uniform, with lots of gold braid on your sleeve.  I think they might
have made you an admiral, Daddy, you'd look so nice on the bridge."

"I am afraid," her father replied, with his eyes glued upon the
spinner which Lessingham was holding, "that that is a consideration
which didn't seem to weigh with them much.  Look at the glitter of
it," he went on, taking up another of the spinners.  "You see, it's
got a double swivel, and they guarantee six hundred revolutions a
minute."

"I must plead ignorance," Lessingham regretted, "of everything
connected with mackerel spinning."

"It's fine sport for a change," Sir Henry declared.  "The only thing
is that if you strike a shoal one gets tired of hauling the beggars
in.  By-the-by, has Jimmy been up for me, Philippa?  Have you heard
whether there are any mackerel in?"

Philippa raised her eyebrows.

"Mackerel!" she repeated sarcastically.

"Have you any objection to the fish, dear?" Sir Henry enquired
blandly.

Philippa made no reply.  Her husband frowned and turned towards
Lessingham.

"You see," he complained a little irritably, "my wife doesn't approve
of my taking an interest even in fishing while the war's on, but,
hang it all, what are you to do when you reach my age?  Thinks I
ought to be a special constable, don't you, Philippa?"

"Need we discuss this before Mr. Lessingham?" she asked, without
looking up from her paper.

Lessingham promptly prepared to take his departure.

"See something more of you, I hope," Sir Henry remarked hospitably,
as he conducted his guest to the door.  "Where are you staying
here?"

"At the hotel."

"Which?"

"I did not understand that there was more than one," Lessingham
replied.  "I simply wrote to The Hotel, Dreymarsh."

"There is only one hotel open, of course, Mr. Lessingham," Philippa
observed, turning towards him.  "Why do you ask such an absurd
question, Henry?  The 'Grand' is full of soldiers.  Come and see
us whenever you feel inclined, Mr. Lessingham."

"I shall certainly take advantage of your permission, Lady Cranston,"
were the farewell words of this unusual visitor as he bowed himself
out.

Sir Henry moved to the sideboard and helped himself to a whisky and
soda.  Philippa laid down her newspaper and watched him as though
waiting patiently for his return.  Helen and Nora had already
obeyed the summons of the dressing bell.

"Henry, I want to hear your news," she insisted.  He threw himself
into an easy-chair and turned over the contents of Philippa's
workbasket.

"Where's that tie of mine you were mending?" he asked.  "Is it
finished yet?"

"It is upstairs somewhere," she replied.  "No, I have not finished
it.  Why do you ask?  You have plenty, haven't you?"

"Drawers full," he admitted cheerfully.  "Half of them I can never
wear, though.  I like that black and white fellow.  Your friend
Lessingham was wearing one exactly like it."

"It isn't exactly an uncommon pattern," Philippa reminded him.

"Seems to have the family taste in clothes," Sir Henry continued,
stroking his chin.  "That grey tweed suit of his was exactly the
same pattern as the suit Richard was wearing, the last time I saw
him in mufti."

"They probably go to the same tailor," Philippa remarked equably.

Sir Henry abandoned the subject.  He was once more engrossed in an
examination of the mackerel spinners.

"You didn't answer my question about Jimmy Dumble," he ventured
presently.

Philippa turned and looked at him.  Her eyes were usually very
sweet and soft and her mouth delightful.  Just at that moment,
however, there were new and very firm lines in her face.

"Henry," she said sternly, "you are purposely fencing with me.
Mr. Lessingham's taste in clothes, or Jimmy Dumble's comings and
goings, are not what I want to hear or talk about.  You went to
London, unwillingly enough, to keep your promise to me.  I want to
know whether you have succeeded in getting anything from the
Admiralty?"

"Nothing but the cold shoulder, my dear," he answered with a little
chuckle.

"Do you mean to say that they offered you nothing at all?" she
persisted.  "You may have been out of the service too long for
them to start you with a modern ship, but surely they could have
given you an auxiliary cruiser, or a secondary command of some sort?"

"They didn't even offer me a washtub, dear," he confessed.  "My
name's on a list, they said--"

"Oh, that list!" Philippa interrupted angrily.  "Henry, I really
can't bear it.  Couldn't they find you anything on land?"

"My dear girl," he replied a little testily, "what sort of a figure
should I cut in an office!  No one can read my writing, and I
couldn't add up a column of figures to save my life.  What is it?"
he added, as the door opened, and Mills made his appearance.

"Dumble is here to see you, sir."

"Show him in at once," his master directed with alacrity.  "Come
in, Jimmy," he went on, raising his voice.  "I've got something
to show you here."

Philippa's lips were drawn a little closer together.  She swept past
her husband on her way to the door.

"I hope you will be so good," she said, looking back, "as to spare
me half an hour of your valuable time this evening.  This is a
subject which I must discuss with you further at once."

"As urgent as all that, eh?" Sir Henry replied, stopping to light
a cigarette.  "Righto!  You can have the whole of my evening, dear,
with the greatest of pleasure.--Now then, Jimmy!"



CHAPTER VI


Jimmy Dumble possessed a very red face and an extraordinary capacity
for silence.  He stood a yard or two inside the room, twirling his
hat in his hand.  Sir Henry, after the closing of the door, did
not for a moment address his visitor.  There was a subtle but
unmistakable change in his appearance as he stood with his hands in
his pockets, and a frown on his forehead, whistling softly to
himself, his eyes fixed upon the door through which his wife had
vanished.  He swung round at last towards the telephone.

"Stand by for a moment, Jimmy, will you?" he directed.

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Sir Henry took up the receiver.  He dropped his voice a little,
although it was none the less distinct.

"Number one--police-station, please.--Hullo there!  The inspector
about?--That you, Inspector?--Sir Henry Cranston speaking.  Could
you just step round?--Good!  Tell them to show you straight into
the library.  You might just drop a hint to Mills about the lights,
eh?  Thank you."

He laid down the receiver and turned towards the fisherman.

"Well, Jimmy," he enquired, "all serene down in the village, eh?"

"So far as I've seen or heard, sir, there ain't been a word spoke
as shouldn't be."

"A lazy lot they are," Sir Henry observed.

"They don't look far beyond the end of their noses."

"Maybe it's as well for us, sir, as they don't," was the cautious
reply.

Sir Henry strolled to the further end of the room.

"Perhaps you are right, Jimmy," he admitted.

"That fellow Ben Oates seems to be the only one with
ideas."

"He don't keep sober long enough to give us any trouble," Dumble
declared.  "He began asking me questions a few days ago, and I know
he put Grice's lad on to find out which way we went last Saturday
week, but that don't amount to anything.  He was dead drunk for
three days afterwards."

Sir Henry nodded.

"I'm not very frightened of Ben Oates, Jimmy," he confided, as he
threw open the door of a large cabinet which stood against the
further wall.  "No strangers about, eh?"

"Not a sign of one, sir."

Sir Henry glanced towards the door and listened.

"Shall I just give the key a turn, sir?" his visitor asked.

"I don't think it is necessary," Sir Henry replied.  "They've all
gone up to change.  Now listen to me, Jimmy."

He leaned forward and touched a spring.  The false back of the
cabinet, with its little array of flies, spinners, fishing hooks
and tackle, slowly rolled back.  Before them stood a huge chart,
wonderfully executed in red, white and yellow.

"That's a marvellous piece of work, sir," the fisherman observed
admiringly.

"Best thing I ever did in my life," Sir Henry agreed.  "Now see
here, Jimmy.  We'll sail out tomorrow, or take the motor boat,
according to the wind.  We'll enter Langley Shallows there and pass
Dead Man's Rock on the left side of the waterway, and keep straight
on until we get Budden Wood on the church tower.  You follow me?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"We make for the headland from there.  You see, we shall be outside
the Gidney Shallows, and number twelve will pick us up.  Put all
the fishing tackle in the boat, and don't forget the bait.  We must
never lose sight of the fact, Jimmy, that the main object of our
lives is to catch fish."

"That's right, sir," was the hearty assent.

"We'll be off at seven o'clock sharp, then," Sir Henry decided.

"The tide'll be on the flow by that time," Jimmy observed, "and
we'll get off from the staith breakwater.  That do be a fine piece
of work and no mistake," he added, as the false back of the cabinet
glided slowly to its place.

Sir Henry chuckled.

"It's nothing to the one I've got on number twelve, Jimmy," he said.
"I've got the seaweed on that, pretty well.  You'll take a drop of
whisky on your way out?" he added.  "Mills will look after you."

"I thank you kindly, sir."

Mills answered the bell with some concern in his face.

"The inspector is here to see you, sir," he announced.  "He did
mention something about the lights.  I'm sure we've all been most
careful.  Even her ladyship has only used a candle in her bedroom."

"Show the inspector in," Sir Henry directed, "and I'll hear what
he has to say.  And give Dumble some whisky as he goes out, and a
cigar."

"Wishing you good night, sir," the latter said, as he followed
Mills.  "I'll be punctual in the morning.  Looks to me as though
we might have good sport."

"We'll hope for it, anyway, Jimmy," his employer replied cheerfully.
"Come in, Inspector."

The inspector, a tall, broad-shouldered man, saluted and stood at
attention.  Sir Henry nodded affably and glanced towards the door.
He remained silent until Mills and Dumble had disappeared.

"Glad I happened to catch you, Inspector," he observed, sitting
on the edge of the table and helping himself to another cigarette.
"Any fresh arrivals?"

"None, sir," the man reported, "of any consequence that I can see.
There are two more young officers for the Depot, and the young lady
for the Grange, and Mr. and Mrs. Silvester returned home last night.
There was a commercial traveller came in the first train this
morning, but he went on during the afternoon."

"Hm!  What about a Mr. Lessingham--a Mr. Hamar Lessingham?"

"I haven't heard of him, sir."

"Have you had the registration papers down from the hotel yet?"

"Not this evening, sir.  I met the Midland and Great Northern train
in myself.  Her ladyship was the only passenger to alight here."

"And I came the other way myself," Sir Henry reflected.

"Now you come to mention the matter, sir," the inspector continued,
"I was up at the hotel this afternoon, and I saw some luggage about
addressed to a name somewhat similar to that."

"Probably sent on in advance, eh?"

"There could be no other way, sir," the inspector replied, "unless
the registration paper has been mislaid.  I'll step up to the hotel
this evening and make sure."

"You'll oblige me very much, if you will.  By Jove," Sir Henry
added, looking towards the door, "I'd no idea it was so late!"

Philippa, who had changed her travelling dress for a plain black
net gown, was standing in the doorway.  She looked at the inspector,
and for a moment the little colour which she had seemed to disappear.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked breathlessly.

"Nothing in the world, my dear," her husband assured her.  "I am
frightfully sorry I'm so late.  Jimmy stayed some time, and then
the inspector here looked in about our lights.  Just a little
more care in this room at night, he thinks.  We'll see to it,
Inspector."

"I am very much obliged, sir," the man replied.  "Sorry to be under
the necessity of mentioning it."

Sir Henry opened the door.

"You'll find your own way out, won't you?" he begged.  "I'm a
little late."

The inspector saluted and withdrew.  Sir Henry glanced round.

"I won't be ten minutes, Philippa," he promised.  "I had no idea
it was so late."

"Come here one moment, please," she insisted.

He came back into the room and stood on the other side of the small
table near which she had paused.

"What is it, dear?" he enquired.  "We are going to leave our talk
till after dinner, aren't we?"

She looked him in the face.  There was an anxious light in her eyes,
and she was certainly not herself.  "Of course!  I only wanted to
know--it seemed to me that you broke off in what you were saying to
the inspector, as I came into the room.  Are you sure that it was
the lights he came around about?  There isn't anything else wrong,
is there?"

"What else could there be?" he asked wonderingly.

"I have no idea," she replied, with well-simulated indifference.
"I was only asking you whether there was anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing!"

She threw herself into an easy-chair and picked up a magazine.

"Thank you," she said.  "Do hurry, please.  I have a new cook and
she asked particularly whether we were punctual people."

"Six minutes will see me through it," Sir Henry promised, making
for the door.  "Come to think of it, I missed my lunch.  I think
I'll manage it in five."



CHAPTER VII


Sir Henry was in a pleasant and expansive humour that evening.  The
new cook was an unqualified success, and he was conscious of having
dined exceedingly well.  He sat in a comfortable easy-chair before
a blazing wood fire, he had just lit one of his favourite brand of
cigarettes, and his wife, whom he adored, was seated only a few
feet away.

"Quite a remarkable change in Helen," he observed.  "She was in the
depths of depression when I went away, and to-night she seems
positively cheerful."

"Helen varies a great deal," Philippa reminded him.

"Still, to-night, I must say, I should have expected to have found
her more depressed than ever," Sir Henry went on.  "She hoped so
much from your trip to London, and you apparently accomplished 
nothing."

"Nothing at all."

"And you have had no letters?"

"None."

"Then Helen's high spirits, I suppose, are only part of woman's
natural inconsistency.--Philippa, dear!"

"Yes?"

"I am glad to be at home.  I am glad to see you sitting there.  I
know you are nursing up something, some little thunderbolt to launch
at me.  Won't you launch it and let's get it over?"

Philippa laid down the book which she had been reading, and turned
to face her husband.  He made a little grimace.

"Don't look so severe," he begged.  "You frighten me before you
begin."

"I'm sorry," she said, "but my face probably reflects my feelings.
I am hurt and grieved and disappointed in you, Henry."

"That's a good start, anyway," he groaned.

"We have been married six years," Philippa went on, "and I admit at
once that I have been very happy.  Then the war came.  You know
quite well, Henry, that especially at that time I was very, very
fond of you, yet it never occurred to me for a moment but that, like
every other woman, I should have to lose my husband for a time.
--Stop, please," she insisted, as he showed signs of interrupting.
"I know quite well that it was through my persuasions you retired
so early, but in those days there was no thought of war, and I
always had it in my mind that if trouble came you would find your
way back to where you belonged."

"But, my dear child, that is all very well," Sir Henry protested,
"but it's not so easy to get back again.  You know very well that
I went up to the Admiralty and offered my services, directly the
war started."

"Yes, and what happened?" Philippa demanded.  "You were, in a
measure, shelved.  You were put on a list and told that you would
hear from them--a sort of Micawber-like situation with which you
were perfectly satisfied.  Then you took that moor up in Scotland
and disappeared for nearly six months."

"I was supplying the starving population with food," he reminded her
genially.  "We sent about four hundred brace of grouse to market,
not to speak of the salmon.  We had some very fair golf, too, some
of the time."

"Oh, I have not troubled to keep any exact account of your
diversions!" Philippa said scornfully.  "Sometimes," she continued,
"I wonder whether you are quite responsible, Henry.  How you can
even talk of these things when every man of your age and strength
is fighting one way or another for his country, seems marvellous to
me.  Do you realise that we are fighting for our very existence?
Do you realise that my own father, who is fifteen years older than
you, is in the firing line?  This is a small place, of course, but
there isn't a man left in it of your age, with your physique, who
has had the slightest experience in either service, who isn't doing
something."

"I can't do more than send in applications," he grumbled.  "Be
reasonable, my dear Philippa.  It isn't the easiest thing in the
world to find a job for a sailor who has been out of it as long as
I have."

"So you say, but when they ask me what you are doing, as they all
did in London this time, and I reply that you can't get a job, there
is generally a polite little silence.  No one believes it.  I don't
believe it."

"Philippa!"

Sir Henry turned in his chair.  His cigar was burning now idly
between his fingers.  His heavy eyebrows were drawn together.

"Well, I don't," she reiterated.  "You can be angry, if you will
--in fact I think I should prefer you to be angry.  You take no
pains at the Admiralty.  You just go there and come away again,
once a year or something like that.  Why, if I were you, I
wouldn't leave the place until they'd found me something--indoors
or outdoors, what does it matter so long as your hand is on the
wheel and you are doing your little for your country?  But you
--what do you care?  You went to town to get a job--and you come
back with new mackerel spinners!  You are off fishing to-morrow
morning with Jimmy Dumble.  Somewhere up in the North Sea, to-day
and to-morrow and the next day, men are giving their lives for
their country.  What do you care?  You will sit there smoking your
pipe and catching dabs!"

"Do you know you are almost offensive, Philippa?" her husband said
quietly.

"I want to be," she retorted.  "I should like you to feel that I am.
In any case, this will probably be the last conversation I shall
hold with you on the subject."

"Well, thank God for that, anyway!" he observed, strolling to the
chimneypiece and selecting a pipe from a rack.  "I think you've
said about enough."

"I haven't finished," she told him ominously.

"Then for heaven's sake get on with it and let's have it over," he
begged.

"Oh, you're impossible!" Philippa exclaimed bitterly.  "Listen.
I give you one chance more.  Tell me the truth?  Is there anything
in your health of which I do not know?  Is there any possible
explanation of your extraordinary behaviour which, for some reason
or other, you have kept to yourself?  Give me your whole confidence."

Sir Henry, for a moment, was serious enough.  He stood looking down
at her a little wistfully.

"My dear," he told her, "I have nothing to say except this.  You
are my very precious wife.  I have loved you and trusted you since
the day of our marriage.  I am content to go on loving and trusting
you, even though things should come under my notice which I do not
understand.  Can't you accept me the same way?"

Philippa, momentarily uneasy, was nevertheless rebellious.

"Accept you the same way?  How can I!  There is nothing in my life
to compare in any way with the tragedy of your--"

She paused, as though unwilling to finish the sentence.  He waited
patiently, however, for her to proceed.

"Of my what?"

Philippa compromised.

"Lethargy," she pronounced triumphantly.

"An excellent word," he murmured.

"It is too mild a one, but you are my husband," she remarked.

"That reminds me," he said quietly.  "You are my wife."

"I know it," she admitted, "but I am also a woman, and there are
limits to my endurance.  If you can give me no explanation of your
behaviour, Henry, if you really have no intention of changing it,
then there is only one course left open for me."

"That sounds rather alarming--what is it?" he demanded.

Philippa lifted her head a little.  This was the pronouncement
towards which she had been leading.

"From to-day," she declared, "I cease to be your wife."

His fingers paused in the manipulation of the tobacco with which he
was filling his pipe.  He turned and looked at her.

"You what?"

"I cease to be your wife."

"How do you manage that?" he asked.

"Don't jest," she begged.  "It hurts me so.  What I mean is surely
plain enough.  I will continue to live under your roof if you wish
it, or I am perfectly willing to go back to Wood Norton.  I will
continue to bear your name because I must, but the other ties
between us are finished."

"You don't mean this, Philippa," he said gravely.

"But I do mean it," she insisted.  "I mean every word I have spoken.
So far as I am concerned, Henry, this is your last chance."

There was a knock at the door.  Mills entered with a note upon a
salver.  Sir Henry took it up, glanced questioningly at his wife,
and tore open the envelope.

"There will be no answer, Mills," he said.

The man withdrew.  Sir Henry read the few lines thoughtfully:--

                                       Police-station, Dreymarsh
  SIR,

  According to enquiries made I find that Mr. Hamar Lessingham
  arrived at the Hotel this evening in time for dinner.  His
  luggage arrived by rail yesterday.  It is presumed that he came
  by motor-car, but there is no car in the garage, nor any mention
  of one.  His room was taken for him by Miss Fairclough, ringing
  up for Lady Cranston about seven o'clock.

                                           Respectfully yours,
                                              JOHN HAYLOCK.

"Is your note of interest?" Philippa enquired.

"In a sense, yes," he replied, thrusting it into his waistcoat
pocket.  "I presume we can consider our late subject of conversation
finished with?"

"I have nothing more to say," she pronounced.

"Very well, then," her husband agreed, "let us select another topic.
This time, supposing I choose?"

"You are welcome."

"Let us converse, then, about Mr. Hamar Lessingham."

Philippa had taken up her work.  Her fingers ceased their labours,
but she did not look up.

"About Mr. Hamar Lessingham," she repeated.  "Rather a limited
subject, I am afraid."

"I am not so sure," he said thoughtfully.  "For instance, who is he?"

"I have no idea," she replied.  "Does it matter?  He was at college
with Richard, and he has been a visitor at Wood Norton.  That is all
that we know.  Surely it is sufficient for us to offer him any
reasonable hospitality?"

"I am not disputing it," Sir Henry assured her.  "On the face of it,
it seems perfectly reasonable that you should be civil to him.  On
the other hand, there are one or two rather curious points about his
coming here just now."

"Really?" Philippa murmured indifferently, bending a little lower
over her work.

"In the first place," her husband continued, "how did he arrive here?"

"For all I know," she replied, "he may have walked."

"A little unlikely.  Still, he didn't come from London by either of
the evening trains, and it seems that you didn't take his rooms for
him until about seven o'clock, before which time he hadn't been to
the hotel.  So, you see, one is driven to wonder how the mischief
he did get here."

"I took his rooms?" Philippa repeated, with a sudden little catch
at her heart.

"Some one from here rang up, didn't they?" Sir Henry went on
carelessly.  "I gathered that we were introducing him at the hotel."

"Where did you hear that?" she demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders, but avoided answering the question.

"I have no doubt," he continued, "that the whole subject of Mr.
Hamar Lessingham is scarcely worth discussing.  Yet he does seem to
have arrived here under a little halo of coincidence."

"I am afraid I have scarcely appreciated that," Philippa remarked;
"in fact, his coming here has seemed to me the most ordinary thing
in the world.  After all, although one scarcely remembers that since
the war, this is a health resort, and the man has been ill."

"Quite right," Sir Henry agreed.  "You are not going to bed, dear?"

Philippa had folded up her work.  She stood for a moment upon the
hearth-rug.  The little hardness which had tightened her mouth had
disappeared, her eyes had softened.

"May I say just one word more," she begged, "about our previous--our
only serious subject of conversation?  I have tried my best since we
were married, Henry, to make you happy."

"You know quite well," he assured her, "that you have succeeded."

"Grant me one favour, then," she pleaded.  "Give up your fishing
expedition to-morrow, go back to London by the first train and let
me write to Lord Rayton.  I am sure he would do something for you."

"Of course he'd do something!"  Her husband groaned.  "I should get
a censorship in Ireland, or a post as instructor at Portsmouth."

"Wouldn't you rather take either of those than nothing?" she asked,
"than go on living the life you are living now?"

"To be perfectly frank with you, Philippa, I wouldn't," he declared
bluntly.  "What on earth use should I be in a land appointment?  Why,
no one could read my writing, and my nautical science is entirely
out of date.  Why a cadet at Osborne could floor me in no time."

"You refuse to let me write, then?" she persisted.

"Absolutely."

"You intend to go on that fishing expedition with Jimmy Dumble
to-morrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it for anything," he confessed.

Philippa was suddenly white with anger.

"Henry, I've finished," she declared, holding out her hand to keep
him away from her.  "I've finished with you entirely.  I would
rather be married to an enemy who was fighting honourably for his
country than to you.  What I have said, I mean.  Don't come near me.
Don't try to touch me."

She swept past him on her way to the door.

"Not even a good-night kiss?" he asked, stooping down.

She looked him in the eyes.

"I am not a child," she said scornfully.

He closed the door after her.  For a moment he remained as though
undecided whether to follow or not.  His face had softened with
her absence.  Finally, however, he turned away with a little shrug
of the shoulders, threw himself into his easy-chair and began to
smoke furiously.

The telephone bell disturbed his reflection.  He rose at once and
took up the receiver.

"Yes, this is 19, Dreymarsh.  Trunk call?  All right, I am here."

He waited until another voice came to him faintly.

"Cranston?"

"Speaking."

"That's right.  The message is Odino Berry, you understand?
O-d-i-n-o b-e-r-r-y."

"I've got it," Sir Henry replied.  "Good night!"  He hung up the
receiver, crossed the room to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers,
and produced a black memorandum book, secured with a brass lock.
He drew a key from his watch chain, opened the book, and ran his
fingers down the O's.

"Odino," he muttered to himself.  "Here it is: 'We have trustworthy
information from Berlin.'  Now Berry."  He turned back.  "'You are
being watched by an enemy secret service agent.'"

He relocked the cipher book and replaced it in the desk.  Then he
strolled over to his easy-chair and helped himself to a whisky and
soda from the tray which Mills had just arranged upon the sideboard.

"We have trustworthy information from Berlin," he repeated to
himself, "that you are being watched by an enemy secret service
agent."



CHAPTER VIII


"Tell me, Mr. Lessingham," Philippa insisted, "exactly what are you
thinking of?  You looked so dark and mysterious from the ridge below
that I've climbed up on purpose to ask you."

Lessingham held out his hand to steady her.  They were standing on
a sharp spur of the cliffs, the north wind blowing in their faces,
thrashing into little flecks of white foam the sea below, on which
the twilight was already resting.  For a moment or two neither of
them could speak.

"I was thinking of my country," he confessed.  "I was looking
through the shadows there, right across the North Sea."

"To Germany?"

He shook his head.

"Further away--to Sweden."

"I forgot," she murmured.  "You looked as though you were posing for
a statue of some one in exile," she observed.  "Come, let us go a
little lower down--unless you want to stay here and be blown to
pieces."

"I was on my way back to the hotel," he answered quickly, as he
followed her lead, "but to tell you the truth I was feeling a little
lonely."

"That," she declared, "is your own fault.  I asked you to come to
Mainsail Haul whenever you felt inclined."

"As I have felt inclined ever since the evening I arrived," he
remarked with a smile, "you might, perhaps, by this time have had
a little too much of me."

"On the contrary," she told him, "I quite expected you yesterday
afternoon, to tell me how you like the place and what you have been
doing.  So you were thinking about--over there?" she added,
moving her head seawards.

"Over there absorbs a great deal of one's thoughts," he confessed,
"and the rest of them have been playing me queer tricks."

"Well, I should like to hear about the first half," she insisted.

"Do you know," he replied, "there are times when even now this war
seems to me like an unreal thing, like something I have been reading
about, some wild imagining of Shelley or one of the unrestrainable
poets.  I can't believe that millions of the flower of Germany's
manhood and yours have perished helplessly, hopelessly, cruelly.
And France--poor decimated France!"

"Well, Germany started the war, you know," she reminded him.

"Did she?" he answered.  "I sometimes wonder.  Even now I fancy, if
the official papers of every one of the nations lay side by side,
with their own case stated from their own point of view, even you
might feel a little confused about that.  Still, I am going to be
very honest with you.  I think myself that Germany wanted war."

"There you are, then," she declared triumphantly.  "The whole thing
is her responsibility."

"I do not quite go so far as that," he protested.  "You see, the
world is governed by great natural laws.  As a snowball grows larger
with rolling, so it takes up more room.  As a child grows out of its
infant clothes, it needs the vestments of a youth and then a man.
And so with Germany.  She grew and grew until the country could not
hold her children, until her banks could not contain her money,
until she stretched her arms out on every side and felt herself
stifled.  Germany came late into the world and found it parcelled
out, but had she not a right to her place?  She made herself great.
She needed space."

"Well," Philippa observed, "you couldn't suppose that other nations
were going to give up what they had, just because she wanted their
possessions, could you?"

"Perhaps not," he admitted.  "And yet, you see, the immutable law
comes in here.  The stronger must possess--not only the stronger
by arms, mind, but by intellect, by learning, by proficiency in
science, by utilitarianism.  The really cruel part, the part I was
thinking of then, as I looked out across the sea, is that this
crude and miserable resort to arms should be necessary."

"If only Germans themselves were as broad-minded and reasonable as
you," Philippa sighed, "one feels that there might be some hope for
the future!"

"I am not alone," he assured her, "but, you see, all over Germany
there is spread like a spider's web the lay religion of the citizen
--devotion to the Government, blind obedience to the Kaiser.
Independent thought has made Germany great in science, in political
economy, in economics.  But independent thought is never turned
towards her political destinies.  Those are shaped for her.  For
good or for evil her children have learnt obedience."

They were descending the hillside now.  At their feet lay the little
town, black and silent.

"You have helped me to understand a little," Philippa said.  "You
put things so gently and yet so clearly.  Now tell me, will you not,
how it is that you, who are a Swede by birth, are bearing arms for
Germany?"

"That is very simple," he confessed.  "My mother was a German, and
when she died she bequeathed to me large estates in Bavaria, and a
very considerable fortune.  These I could never have inherited
unless I had chosen to do my military service in Germany.  My family
is an impoverished one, and I have brothers and sisters dependent
upon me.  Under the circumstances, hesitation on my part was
impossible."

"But when the war came?" she queried.

He looked at her in surprise.

"What was there left for me then?" he demanded.  "Naturally I heard
nothing but the voice of those whom I had sworn to obey.  I was in
that mad rush through Belgium.  I was wounded at Maubeuge, or else
I should have followed hard on the heels of that wonderful retreat
of yours.  As it was, I lay for many months in hospital.  I joined
again--shall I confess it?--almost unwillingly.  The bloodthirstiness
of it all sickened me.  I fought at Ypres, but I think that it was
something of the courage of despair, of black misery.  I was wounded
again and decorated.  I suppose I shall never be fit for the front
again.  I tried to turn to account some of my knowledge of England
and English life.  Then they sent me here."

"Here, of all places in the world!" Philippa repeated wonderingly.
"Just look at us!  We have a single line of railway, a perfectly
straightforward system of roads, the ordinary number of soldiers
being trained, no mysteries, no industries--nothing.  What terrible
scheme are you at work upon, Mr. Lessingham?"

He smiled.

"Between you and me," he confided, "I am not at all sure that I am
not here on a fool's errand--at least I thought so when I arrived."

She glanced up at him.

"And why not now?"

He made no answer, but their eyes met and Philippa looked hurriedly
away.  There was a moment's queer, strained silence.  Before them
loomed up the outline of Mainsail Haul.

"You will come in and have some tea, won't you?" she invited.

"If I may.  Believe me," he added, "it has only been a certain
diffidence that has kept me away so long."

She made no reply, and they entered the house together.  They found
Helen and Nora, with three or four young men from the Depot, having
tea in the drawing-room.  Lessingham slipped very easily into the
pleasant little circle.  If a trifle subdued, his quiet manners,
and a sense of humour which every now and then displayed itself,
were most attractive.

"Wish you'd come and dine with us and meet our colonel, sir,"
Harrison asked him.  "He was at Magdalen a few years after Major
Felstead, and I am sure you'd find plenty to talk about."

"I am quite sure that we should," Lessingham replied.  "May I come,
perhaps, towards the end of next week? I am making most strenuous
efforts to lead an absolutely quiet life here."

"Whenever you like, sir.  We sha'n't be able to show you anything
very wild in the way of dissipation.  Vintage port and a decent
cigar are the only changes we can make for guests."

Philippa drew her visitor on one side presently, and made him sit
with her in a distant corner of the room.

"I knew there was something I wanted to say to you," she began, "but
somehow or other I forgot when I met you.  My husband was very much
struck with Helen's improved spirits.  Don't you think that we had
better tell him, when he returns, that we had heard from Major
Felstead?"

Lessingham agreed.

"Just let him think that your letters came by post in the ordinary
way," he advised.  "I shouldn't imagine, from what I have seen of
your husband, that he is a suspicious person, but it is just possible
that he might have associated them with me if you had mentioned them
the other night.  When is he coming back?"

"I never know," Philippa answered with a sigh.  "Perhaps to-night,
perhaps in a week.  It depends upon what sport he is having.  You
are not smoking."

Lessingham lit a cigarette.

"I find your husband," he said quietly, "rather an interesting type.
We have no one like that in Germany.  He almost puzzles me."

Philippa glanced up to find her companion's dark eyes fixed upon her.

"There is very little about Henry that need puzzle any one," she
complained bitterly.  "He is just an overgrown, spoilt child, devoted
to amusements, and following his fancy wherever it leads him.  Why do
you look at me, Mr. Lessingham, as though you thought I was keeping
something back?  I am not, I can assure you."

"Perhaps I was wondering," he confessed, "how you really felt towards
a husband whose outlook was so unnatural."

She looked down at her intertwined fingers.

"Do you know," she said softly, "I feel, somehow or other, although
we have known one another such a short time, as though we were
friends, and yet that is a question which I could not answer.  A
woman must always have some secrets, you know."

"A man may try sometimes to preserve his," he sighed, "but a woman
is clever enough, as a rule, to dig them out."

A faint tinge of colour stole into her cheeks.  She welcomed Helen's
approach almost eagerly.

"A woman must first feel the will," she murmured, without glancing
at him.  "Helen, do you think we dare ask Mr. Lessingham to come
and dine?"

"Please do not discourage such a delightful suggestion," Lessingham
begged eagerly.

"I haven't the least idea of doing so," Helen laughed, "so long as
I may have--say just ten minutes to talk about Dick."

"It is a bargain," he promised.

"We shall be quite alone," Philippa warned him, "unless Henry arrives."

"It is the great attraction of your invitation," he confessed.

"At eight o'clock, then."



CHAPTER IX


"Captain Griffiths to see your ladyship."

Philippa's fingers rested for a moment upon the keyboard of the
piano before which she was seated, awaiting Lessingham's arrival.
Then she glanced at the clock.  It was ten minutes to eight.

"You can show him in, Mills, if he wishes to see me."

Captain Griffiths was ushered into the room--awkward, unwieldly,
nervous as usual.  He entered as though in a hurry, and there was
nothing in his manner to denote that he had spent the last few
hours making up his mind to this visit.

"I must apologise for this most untimely call, Lady Cranston," he
said, watching the closing of the door.  "I will not take up more
than five minutes of your time."

"We are very pleased to see you at any time, Captain Griffiths,"
Philippa said hospitably.  "Do sit down, please."

Captain Griffiths bowed but remained standing.

"It is very near your dinner-time, I know, Lady Cranston," he
continued apologetically.  "The fact of it is, however, that as
Commandant here it is my duty to examine the bona fides of any
strangers in the place.  There is a gentleman named Lessingham
staying at the hotel, who I understand gave your name as
reference."

Philippa's eyes looked larger than ever, and her face more innocent,
as she gazed up at her visitor.

"Why, of course, Captain Griffiths," she said.  "Mr. Lessingham
was at college with my brother, and one of his best friends.  He
has shot down at my father's place in Cheshire."

"You are speaking of your brother, Major Felstead?"

"My only brother."

"I am very much obliged to you, Lady Cranston," Captain Griffiths
declared.  "I can see that we need not worry any more about Mr.
Lessingham."

Philippa laughed.

"It seems rather old-fashioned to think of you having to worry about
any one down here," she observed.  "It really is a very harmless
neighbourhood, isn't it?"

"There isn't much going on, certainly," the Commandant admitted.
"Very dull the place seems at times."

"Now be perfectly frank," Philippa begged him.  "Is there a single
fact of importance which could be learnt in this place, worth
communicating to the enemy?  Is the danger of espionage here worth
a moment's consideration?"

"That," Captain Griffiths replied in somewhat stilted fashion, "is
not a question which I should be prepared to answer off-hand."

Philippa shrugged her shoulders and appealed almost feverishly to
Helen, who had just entered the room.

"Helen, do come and listen to Captain Griffiths!  He is making me
feel quite creepy.  There are secrets about, it seems, and he wants
to know all about Mr. Lessingham."

Helen smiled with complete self-possession.

"Well, we can set his mind at rest about Mr. Lessingham, can't we?"
she observed, as she shook hands.

"We can do more," Philippa declared.  "We can help him to judge for
himself.  We are expecting Mr. Lessingham for dinner, Captain
Griffiths. Do stay."

"I couldn't think of taking you by storm like this," Captain
Griffiths replied, with a wistfulness which only made his voice
sound hoarser and more unpleasant.  "It is most kind of you, Lady
Cranston.  Perhaps you will give me another opportunity."

"I sha'n't think of it," Philippa insisted.  "You must stay and
dine to-night.  We shall be a partie carríe, for Nora goes to bed
directly after dinner.  I am ringing the bell to tell Mills to set
an extra place," she added.

Captain Griffiths abandoned himself to fate with a little shiver of
complacency.  He welcomed Lessingham, who was presently announced,
with very much less than his usual reserve, and the dinner was in
every way a success.  Towards its close, Philippa became a little
thoughtful.  She glanced more than once at Lessingham, who was
sitting by her side, almost in admiration.  His conversation, gay
at times, always polished, was interlarded continually with those
little social reminiscences inevitable amongst men moving in a
certain circle of English society.  Apparently Richard Felstead
was not the only one of his college friends with whom he had kept
in touch.  The last remnants of Captain Griffiths' suspicions
seemed to vanish with their second glass of port, although his
manner became in no way more genial.

"Don't you think you are almost a little too daring?" Philippa
asked her favoured guest as he helped her afterwards to set out
a bridge table.

"One adapts one's methods to one's adversary," he murmured, with a
smile, "Your friend Captain Griffiths had only the very conventional
suspicions.  The mention of a few good English names, acquaintance
with the ordinary English sports, is quite sufficient with a man
like that."

Helen and Griffiths were talking at the other end of the room.
Philippa raised her eyes to her companion's.

"You become more of a mystery than ever," she declared.  "You are
making me even curious.  Tell me really why you have paid us this
visit from the clouds?"

She was sorry almost as soon as she had asked the question.  For a
moment the calm insouciance of his manner seemed to have departed.
His eyes glowed.

"In search of new things," he answered.

"Guns?  Fortifications?"

"Neither."

A spirit of mischief possessed her.  Lessingham's manner was baffling
and yet provocative.  For a moment the political possibilities of
his presence faded away from her mind.  She had an intense desire to
break through his reserve.

"Won't you tell me--why you came?"

"I could tell you more easily," he answered in a low tone, "why it
will be the most miserable day of my life when I leave."

She laughed at him with perfect heartiness.

"How delightful to be flirted with again!" she sighed.  "And I
thought all German men were so heavy, and paid elaborate, underdone
compliments.  Still, your secret, sir, please?  That is what I want
to know."

"If you will have just a little patience!" he begged, leaning so
close to her that their heads almost touched, "I promise that I will
not leave this place before I tell it to you."

Philippa's eyes for the first time dropped before his.  She knew
perfectly well what she ought to have done and she was singularly
indisposed to do it.  It was a most piquant adventure, after all,
and it almost helped her to forget the trouble which had been
sitting so heavily in her heart.  Still avoiding his eyes, she
called the others.

"We are quite ready for bridge," she announced.

They played four or five rubbers.  Lessingham was by far the most
expert player, and he and Philippa in the end were the winners.
The two men stood together for a moment or two at the sideboard,
helping themselves to whisky and soda.  Griffiths had become more
taciturn than ever, and even Philippa was forced to admit that the
latter part of the evening had scarcely been a success.

"Do you play club bridge in town, Mr. Lessingham?" Griffiths asked.

"Never," was the calm reply.

"You are head and shoulders above our class down here."

"Very good of you to say so," Lessingham replied courteously.  "I
held good cards to-night."

"I wonder," Griffiths went on, dropping his voice a little and
keeping his eyes fixed upon his companion, "what the German
substitute for bridge is."

"I wonder," Lessingham echoed.

"As a nation," his questioner proceeded, "they probably don't waste
as much time on cards as we do."

Lessingham's interest in the subject appeared to be non-existent.
He strolled away from the sideboard towards Philippa.  She, for her
part, was watching Captain Griffiths.

"So many thanks, Lady Cranston," Lessingham murmured, "for your
hospitality."

"And what about that secret?" she asked.

"You see, there are two," he answered, looking down at her.  "One
I shall most surely tell you before I leave here, because it is the
one secret which no man has ever succeeded in keeping to himself.
As for the other--"

He hesitated.  There was something almost like pain in his face.
She broke in hastily.

"I did not call you away to ask about either.  I happened to notice
Captain Griffiths just now.  Do you know that he is watching you
very closely?"

"I had an idea of it," Lessingham admitted indifferently.  "He is
rather a clumsy person, is he not?"

"You will be careful?" she begged earnestly.  "Remember, won't you,
that Helen and I are really in a most disgraceful position if
anything should come out."

"Nothing shall," he promised her.  "I think you know, do you not,
that, whatever might happen to me, I should find some means to
protect you."

For the second time she felt a curious lack of will to fittingly
reprove his boldness.  She had even to struggle to keep her tone as
careless as her words.

"You really are a delightful person!" she exclaimed.  "How long is
it since you descended from the clouds?"

"Sometimes I think that I am there still," he answered, "but I have
known you about seventy-six hours."

"What precision?" she laughed.  "It's a national characteristic,
isn't it?  Captain Griffiths," she continued, as she observed his
approach, "if you really must go, please take Mr. Lessingham with
you.  He is making fun of me.  I don't allow even Dick's friends
to do that."

Lessingham's disclaimer was in quite the correct vein.

"You must both come again very soon," their hostess concluded, as
she shook hands.  "I enjoyed our bridge immensely."

The two men were already on their way to the door when a sudden
idea seemed to occur to Captain Griffiths.  He turned back.

"By-the-by, Lady Cranston," he asked, "have you heard anything from
your brother?"

Philippa shook her head sadly.  Helen, who, unlike her friend, had
not had the advantage of a distinguished career upon the amateur
dramatic stage, turned away and held a handkerchief to her eyes.

"Not a word," was Philippa's sorrowful reply.

Captain Griffiths offered a clumsy expression of his sympathy.

"Bad luck!" he said.  "I'm so sorry, Lady Cranston.  Good night once
more."

This time their departure was uninterrupted.  Helen removed her
handkerchief from her eyes, and Philippa made a little grimace at
the closed door.

"Do you believe," Helen asked seriously, "that Captain Griffiths
has any suspicions?"

Philippa shrugged her shoulders.

"If he has, who cares?" she replied, a little defiantly.  "The
very idea of a duel of wits between those two men is laughable."

"Perhaps so," Helen agreed, with a shade of doubt in her tone.



CHAPTER X


Philippa and Helen started, a few mornings later, for one of their
customary walks.  The crystalline October sunshine, in which every
distant tree and, seaward, each slowly travelling steamer, seemed
to gain a new clearness of outline, lay upon the deep-ploughed
fields, the yellowing bracken, and the red-gold of the bending trees,
while the west wind, which had strewn the sea with white-flecked
waves, brought down the leaves to form a carpet for their feet, and
played strange music along the wood-crested slope.  In the broken
land through which they made their way, a land of trees and moorland,
with here and there a cultivated patch, the yellow gorse still glowed
in unexpected corners; queer, scentless flowers made splashes of
colour in the hedgerows; a rabbit scurried sometimes across their
path; a cock pheasant, after a moment's amazed stare, lowered his
head and rushed for unnecessary shelter.  The longer they looked
upwards, the bluer seemed the sky.  The grass beneath their feet was
as green and soft as in springtime.  Driven by the wind, here and
there a white-winged gull sailed over their heads,--a cloud of them
rested upon a freshly turned little square of ploughed land between
two woods.  A flight of pigeons, like torn leaves tossed about by
the wind, circled and drifted above them.  Philippa seated herself
upon the trunk of a fallen tree and gazed contentedly about her.

"If I had a looking-glass and a few more hairpins, I should be
perfectly happy," she sighed.  "I am sure my hair must look awful."

Helen glanced at it admiringly.

"I decline to say the correct thing," she declared.  "I will only
remind you that there will be no one here to look at it."

"I am not so sure," Philippa replied.  "These are the woods which
the special constables haunt by day and by night.  They gaze up
every tree trunk for a wireless installation, and they lie behind
hedges and watch for mysterious flashes."

"Are you suggesting that we may meet Mr. Lessingham?" Helen enquired,
lazily.  "I am perfectly certain that he knows nothing of the
equipment of the melodramatic spy.  As to Zeppelins, don't you
remember he told us that he hated them and was terrified of bombs."

"My dear," Philippa remonstrated, "Mr. Lessingham does nothing crude."

"And yet,--" Helen began.

"Yet I suppose the man has something at the back of his head,"
Philippa interrupted.  "Sometimes I think that he has, sometimes I
believe that Richard must have shown him my picture, and he has come
over here to see if I am really like it."

"He does behave rather like that," her companion admitted drily.

Phillipa turned and looked at her.

"Helen," she said severely, "don't be a cat."

"If I were to express my opinion of your behaviour," Helen went on,
picking up a pine cone and examining it, "I might astonish you."

"You have an evil mind," Philippa yawned, producing her cigarette
case.  "What you really resent is that Mr. Lessingham sometimes
forgets to talk about Dick."

"The poor man doesn't get much chance," Helen retorted, watching the
blue smoke from her cigarette and leaning back with an air of content.
"Whatever do you and he find to talk about, Philippa?"

"Literature--English and German," Philippa murmured demurely.  "Mr.
Lessingham is remarkably well read, and he knows more about our
English poets than any man I have met for years."

"I forgot that you enjoyed that sort of thing."

"Once more, don't be a cat," Philippa enjoined.  "If you want me to
confess it, I will own up at once.  You know what a simple little
thing I am.  I admire Mr. Lessingham exceedingly, and I find him a
most interesting companion."

"You mean," her friend observed drily "the Baron Maderstrom."
Philippa looked around and frowned.

"You are most indiscreet, Helen," she declared.  "I have learnt
something of the science of espionage lately, and I can assure you
that all spoken or written words are dangerous.  There is a
thoroughly British squirrel in that tree overhead, and I am sure
he heard."

"I suppose the sunshine has got into your head," Helen groaned.

"If you mean that I am finding it a relief to talk nonsense, you are
right," Philippa assented.  "As a matter of fact, I am feeling most
depressed.  Henry telephoned from somewhere or other before breakfast
this morning, to say that he should probably be home to-night or
to-morrow.  They must have landed somewhere down the coast."

"You are a most undutiful wife," Helen pronounced severely.  "I am
sure Henry is a delightful person, even if he is a little
irresponsible, and it is almost pathetic to remember how much you
were in love with him, a year or two ago."

Some of the lightness vanished from Philippa's face.

"That was before the war," she sighed.

"I still think Henry is a dear, though I don't altogether understand
him," Helen said thoughtfully.

"No doubt," Philippa assented, "but you'd find the not understanding
him a little more galling, if you were his wife.  You see, I didn't
know that I was marrying a sort of sporting Mr. Skimpole."

"I wonder," Helen reflected, "how Henry and Mr. Lessingham will get
on when they see more of one another."

"I really don't care," Philippa observed indifferently.

"I used to notice sometimes--that was soon after you were married,"
Helen continued, "that Henry was just a little inclined to be
jealous."

Philippa withdrew her eyes from the sea.  There was a queer little
smile upon her lips.

"Well, if he still is," she said, "I'll give him something to be
jealous about."

"Poor Mr. Lessingham!" Helen murmured.

Philippa's eyebrows were raised.

"Poor Mr. Lessingham?" she repeated.  "I don't think you'll find
that he'll be in the least sorry for himself."

"He may be in earnest," Helen reminded her friend.  "You can be
horribly attractive when you like, you know, Philippa."

Philippa smiled sweetly.

"It is just possible," she said, "that I may be in earnest myself.
I've quarrelled pretty desperately with Henry, you know, and I'm a
helpless creature without a little admiration."

Helen rose suddenly to her feet.  Her eyes were fixed upon a figure
approaching through the wood.

"You really aren't respectable, Philippa," she declared.  "Throw
away your cigarette, for heaven's sake, and sit up.  Some one is
coming."

Philippa only moved her head lazily.  The sunlight, which came down
in a thousand little zigzags through the wind-tossed trees, fell
straight upon her rather pale, defiant little face, with its
unexpressed evasive charm, and seemed to find a new depth of colour
in the red-gold of her disordered hair.  Her slim, perfect body was
stretched almost at full length, one leg drawn a little up, her hands
carelessly drooping towards the grass.  The cigarette was still
burning in the corner of her lips.

"I decline," she said, "to throw away my cigarette for any one."

"Least of all, I trust," a familiar voice interposed, "for me."

Philippa sat upright at once, smoothed her hair and looked a little
resentfully at Lessingham.  He was wearing a brown tweed
knickerbocker suit, and he carried a gun under his arm.

"Whatever are you doing up here," she demanded, "and do you know
anything about our game laws?  You can't come out into the woods
here and shoot things just because you feel like it."

He disposed of his gun and seated himself between them.

"That is quite all right," he assured her.  "Your neighbour, Mr.
Windover, to whom these woods apparently belong, asked me to bring
my gun out this morning and try and get a woodcock."

"Gracious!  You don't mean that Mr. Windover is here, too?" Philippa
demanded, looking around.  Lessingham shook his head.

"His car came for him at the other side of the wood," he explained.
"He was wanted to go on the Bench.  I elected to walk home."

"And the woodcock?" she asked.  "I adore woodcock."

He produced one from his pocket, took up her felt hat, which was
lying amongst the bracken, and busied himself insinuating the pin
feathers under the silk band.

"There," he said, handing it to her, "the first woodcock of the
season.  We got four, and I really only accepted one in the hope
that you would like it.  I shall leave it with the estimable Mills,
on my return."

"You must come and share it," Philippa insisted.  "Those boys of
Nora's are coming in to dinner.  Your gift shall be the piece de
resistance."

"Then may I dine another night?" he begged.  "This place encourages
in me the grossest of appetites."

"Have no fear," she replied.  "You will never see that woodcock
again.  I shall have it for my luncheon to-morrow.  I ordered dinner
before I came out, and though it may be a simple feast, I promise
that you shall not go away hungry."

"Will you promise that you will never send me away hungry?" he asked,
dropping his voice for a moment.

She turned and studied him.  Helen, who had strolled a few yards
away, was knee-deep in the golden brown bracken, picking some
gorgeously coloured leaves from a solitary bramble bush.  Lessingham
had thrown his cap onto the ground, and his wind-tossed hair and the
unusual colour in his cheeks were both, in their way, becoming.  His
loose but well-fitting country clothes, his tie and soft collar, were
all well-chosen and suitable.  She admired his high forehead and his
firm, rather proud mouth.  His eyes as well as his tone were full of
seriousness.

"You know that you ought to be saying that to some Gretchen away
across that terrible North Sea," she laughed.

"There is no Gretchen who has ever made my heart shake as you do,"
he whispered.

She picked up her hat and sighed.

"Really," she said, "I think things are quite complicated enough as
they are.  I am in a flutter all day long, as it is, about your
mission here and your real identity.  I simply could not include a
flirtation amongst my excitements."

"I have never flirted," he assured her gravely.

"Wise man," she pronounced, rising to her feet.  "Come, let us go
and help Helen pick leaves.  She is scratching her fingers terribly,
and I'm sure you have a knife.  A dear, economical creature, Helen,"
she added, as they strolled along.  "I am perfectly certain that
those are destined to adorn my dining-table, and, with chrysanthemums
at sixpence each, you can't imagine how welcome they are.  Come,
produce the knife, Mr. Lessingham."

The knife was forthcoming, and presently they all turned their faces
homeward.  Philippa arrested both her companions on the outskirts of
the wood, and pointed to the red-tiled little town, to the sombre,
storm-beaten grey church on the edge of the cliff, to the peaceful
fields, the stretch of gorse-sprinkled common, and the rolling
stretch of green turf on the crown of the cliffs.  Beyond was the
foam-flecked blue sea, dotted all over with cargo steamers.

"Would one believe," she asked satirically, "that there should be
scope here in this forgotten little spot for the brains of a--Mr.
Lessingham!"

"Remember that I was sent," he protested.  "The error, if error
there be, is not mine."

"And after all," Helen reminded them both, "think how easily one
may be misled by appearances.  You couldn't imagine anything more
honest than the faces of the villagers and the fishermen one sees
about, yet do you know, Mr. Lessingham, that we were visited by
burglars last night?"

"Seriously?" he asked.

"Without a doubt.  Of course, Mainsail Haul is an invitation to
thieves.  They could get in anywhere.  Last night they chose the
French windows and seem to have made themselves at home in the
library."

"I trust," Lessingham said, "that they did not take anything of value?"

"They took nothing at all," Philippa sighed.  "That is the
humiliating part of it.  They evidently didn't like our things."

"How do you know that you had burglars, if they took nothing away?"
Lessingham enquired.

"So practical!" Philippa murmured.  "As a matter of fact, I heard
some one moving about, and I rang the alarm bell.  Mills was
downstairs almost directly and we heard some one running down the
drive.  The French windows were open, a chair was overturned in the
library, and a drawer in my husband's desk was wide open."

"The proof," Lessingham admitted, "is overwhelming.  You were visited
by a burglar.  Does your husband keep anything of value in his desk?"

"Henry hasn't anything of value in the world," Philippa replied
drily, "except his securities, and they are at the bank."

"Without going so far as to contradict you," Lessingham observed, with
a smile, "I still venture to disagree!"



CHAPTER XI


Sir Henry stepped back from the scales and eyed the fish which they
had been weighing, admiringly.

"You see that, Mills?  You see that, Jimmy?" he pointed out.  "Six
and three-quarter pounds!  I was right almost to an ounce.  He's a
fine fellow!"

"A very extraordinary fish, sir," the butler observed.  "Will you
allow me to take your oilskins?  Dinner was served nearly an hour
ago."

Sir Henry slipped off his dripping overalls and handed them over.

"That's all right," he replied.  "Listen.  Don't say a word about
my arrival to your mistress at present.  I have some writing to do.
Bring me a glass of sherry at once, or mix a cocktail if you can
do so without being missed, and take Jimmy away and give him some
whisky and soda."

"But what about your own dinner, sir?"

"I'll have a tray in the gun room," his master decided, "say in
twenty minutes' time.  And, Mills, who did you say were dining?"

"Two of the young officers from the Depot, sir--Mr. Harrison and
Mr. Sinclair--and Mr. Hamar Lessingham."

"Lessingham, eh?" Sir Henry repeated, as he seated himself before
his writing-table.  "Mills," he added, in a confidential whisper,
"what port did you serve?"

The butler's expression was one of conscious rectitude.

"Not the vintage, sir," he announced with emphasis.  "Some very
excellent wood port, which we procured for shooting luncheons.
The young gentlemen like it."

"You're a jewel, Mills," his master declared.  "Now you understand
--an aperitif for me now, some whisky for Jimmy in your room, and
not a word about my being here.  Good night, Jimmy.  Sorry we were
too late for the mackerel, but we had some grand sport, all the same.
You'll have a day or two's rest ashore now."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Dumble replied.  "We got in just in time.  There's
something more than a squall coming up nor'ards."

Sir Henry listened for a moment.  The French windows shook, the rain
beat against the panes, and a dull booming of wind was clearly
audible from outside.

"We timed that excellently," he agreed.  "Come up and have a chat
to-morrow, Jimmy, if your wife will spare you."

"I'll be round before eleven, sir," the fisherman promised, with a
grin.

Sir Henry waited for the closing of the door.  Then he leaned forward
for several moments.  He had scarcely the appearance of a man returned
from a week or two of open-air life and indulgence in the sport he
loved best.  The healthy tan of his complexion was lessened rather
than increased.  There were black lines