He climbed the stairs, meeting Nora on her way down, and knocked at his wife's door. There was no reply. He tried the handle and found the door locked.

"Are you there, Philippa?" he asked.

"Yes!" she replied coldly.

"I am going to London this morning. Can I have a few words with you first?"

"No!"

Sir Henry was a little taken aback.

"Don't be silly, Philippa," he persisted. "I may be away for four or five days."

There was no answer. Sir Henry suddenly remembered another entrance from a newly added bathroom. He availed himself of it and found Philippa seated in an easy-chair, calmly progressing with her breakfast. She raised her eyebrows at his entrance.

"These are my apartments," she reminded him.

"Don't be a little fool," he exclaimed impatiently.

Philippa deliberately buttered herself a piece of toast, picked up her book, and became at once immersed in it.

"You don't wish to talk to me, then?" he demanded.

"I do not," she agreed. "You have had all the opportunities which any man should need, of explaining certain matters to me. My curiosity in them has ended; also my interest—in you. You say you are going to London. Very well. Pray do not hurry home on my account."

Sir Henry, as he turned to leave the room, made the common mistake of a man arguing with a woman—he attempted to have the last word.

"Perhaps I am better out of the way, eh?"

"Perhaps so," Philippa assented sweetly.



CHAPTER XXVI

Philippa, late that afternoon, found what she sought—solitude. She had walked along the sands until Dreymarsh lay out of sight on the other side of a spur of the cliffs. Before her stretched a long and level plain, a fringe of sand, and a belt of shingly beach. There was not a sign of any human being in sight, and of buildings only a quaint tower on the far horizon.

She found a dry place on the pebbles, removed her hat and sat down, her hands clasped around her knees, her eyes turned seaward. She had come out here to think, but it was odd how fugitive and transient her thoughts became. Her husband was always there in the background, but in those moments it was Lessingham who was the predominant figure. She remembered his earnestness, his tender solicitude for her, the courage which, when necessity demanded, had flamed up in him, a born and natural quality. She remembered the agony of those few minutes on the preceding day, when nothing but what still seemed a miracle had saved him. At one moment she felt herself inclined to pray that he might never come back. At another, her heart ached to see him once more. She knew so well that if he came it would be for her sake, that he would come to ask her finally the question with which she had fenced. She knew, too, that his coming would be the moment of her life. She was so much of a woman, and the passionate craving of her sex to give love for love was there in her heart, almost omnipotent. And in the background there was that bitter desire to bring suffering upon the man who had treated her like a child, who had placed her in a false position with all other women, who had dawdled and idled away his days, heedless of his duty, heedless of every serious obligation. When she tried to reason, her way seemed so clear, and yet, behind it all, there was that cold impulse of almost Victorian prudishness, the inheritance of a long line of virtuous women, a prudishness which she had once, when she had believed that it was part of her second nature, scoffed at as being the outcome of one of the finer forms of selfishness.

She told herself that she had come there to decide, and decision came no nearer to her. A late afternoon star shone weakly in the sky. A faint, vaporous mist obscured the horizon and floated in tangled wreaths upon the face of the sea. Only that line of sand seemed still clear-cut and distinct, and as she glanced along it her eyes were held by something approaching, something which seemed at first nothing but a black, moving speck, then gradually resolved itself into the semblance of a man on horseback, galloping furiously. She watched him as he drew nearer and nearer, the sand flying from his horse's hoofs, his figure motionless, his eyes apparently fixed upon some distant spot. It was not until he had come within fifty yards of her that she recognised him. His horse shied at the sight of her and was suddenly swung round with a powerful wrist. Little specks of sand, churned up in the momentary stampede of hoofs, fell upon her skirt. For the rest, she watched the struggle composedly, a struggle which was over almost as soon as it was begun. Captain Griffiths leaned down from his trembling but subdued horse.

"Lady Cranston!" he exclaimed in astonishment.

"That's me," she replied, smiling up at him. "Have you been riding off your bad temper?"

He glanced down at his horse's quivering sides. Back as far as one could see there was that regular line of hoof marks.

"Am I bad-tempered?" he asked.

"Well," she observed, "I don't know you well enough to answer that question. I was simply thinking of yesterday evening."

He slipped from his horse and stood before her. His long, severe face had seldom seemed more malevolent.

"I had enough to make me bad-tempered," he declared. "I had tracked down a German spy, step by step, until I had him there, waiting for arrest—expecting it, even—and then I got that wicked message."

"What was that wicked message after all?" she enquired.

"That doesn't matter," he answered. "It was from a quarter where they ought to know better, and it ordered me to make no arrest. I have sent to the War Office to-day a full report, and I am praying that they may change their minds."

Philippa sighed.

"If you hadn't received that telegram last night," she observed, "it seems to me that I should have been a widow to-day."

He frowned, and struck his boot heavily with his riding whip.

"Yes, I heard of that," he admitted. "I dare say if he hadn't gone, though, some one else would."

"Would you have gone if you had been there?" she asked.

"If you had told me to," he replied, looking at her steadfastly.

Philippa felt a little shiver. There was something ominous in the intensity of his gaze and the meaning which he had contrived to impart to his tone. She rose to her feet.

"Well," she said, "don't let me keep you here. I am getting cold."

He passed his arm through the bridle of his horse. "I will walk with you, if I may," he proposed. She made no reply, and they set their faces homewards.

"I hear Lessingham has left the place," he remarked, a little abruptly.

"Oh, I expect he'll come back," Philippa replied.

"How long is it, Lady Cranston, since you took to consorting with German spies?" he asked.

"Don't be foolish—or impertinent," she enjoined. "You are making a ridiculous mistake about Mr. Lessingham."

He laughed unpleasantly.

"No need for us to fence," he said. "You and I know who he is. What I do want to know, what I have been wondering all the way from the point there—four miles of hard galloping and one question—why are you his friend? What is he to you?"

"Really, Captain Griffiths," she protested, looking up at him, "of what possible interest can that be to you?"

"Well, it is, anyhow," he answered gruffly. "Anything that concerns you is of interest to me."

Philippa realised at that moment, perhaps for the first time, what it all meant. She realised the significance of those apparently purposeless afternoon calls, when through sheer boredom she had had to send for Helen to help her out; the significance of those long silences, the melancholy eyes which seemed to follow her movements. She felt an unaccountable desire to laugh, and then, at the first twitchings of her lips, she restrained herself. She knew that tragedy was stalking by her side.

"I think, Captain Griffiths," she said gravely, "that you are talking nonsense, and you are not a very good hand at it. Won't you please ride on?"

He made no movement to mount his horse. He plodded along the soft sand by her side—a queer, elongated figure, his gloomy eyes fixed upon the ground.

"Until this fellow Lessingham came you were never so hard," he persisted.

She looked at him with genuine curiosity.

"I was never so hard?" she repeated. "Do you imagine that I have ever for a single moment considered my demeanour towards you—you of all persons in the world? I simply don't remember when you have been there and when you haven't. I don't remember the humours in which I have been when we have conversed. All that you have said seems to me to be the most arrant nonsense."

He swung himself into the saddle and gathered up the reins.

"Thank you," he said bitterly, "I understand. Only let me tell you this," he went on, his whip poised in his hand. "You may have powerful friends who saved your—"

He hesitated so long that she glanced up at him and read all that he had wished to say in his face.

"My what?" she asked.

His courage failed him.

"Mr. Lessingham," he proceeded, "from arrest. But if he shows his face here again in Dreymarsh, I sha'n't stop to arrest him. I shall shoot him on sight and chance the consequences."

"They'll hang you!" she declared savagely.

He laughed at her.

"Hang me for shooting a man whom I can prove to be a German spy? They won't dare! They won't even dare to place me under arrest for an hour. Why, when the truth becomes known," he went on, his voice gaining courage as the justice of his case impressed itself upon him, "what do you suppose is going to happen to two women who took this fellow in and befriended him, introduced him under a false name to their friends, gave him the run of their house—this man whom they knew all the time was a German? You, Lady Cranston, chafing and scolding your husband by night and by day because he isn't where you think he ought to be; you, so patriotic that you cannot bear the sight of him out of uniform; you—the hostess, the befriender, the God knows what of Bertram Maderstrom! It will be a pretty tale when it's all told!"

"I really think," Philippa asserted calmly, "that you are the most utterly impossible and obnoxious creature I have ever met."

His face was dangerous for a moment. They had not yet reached the promontory which sheltered them from Dreymarsh.

"Perhaps," he muttered, leaning malignly towards her, "I could make myself even more obnoxious."

"Quite possibly," she replied, "only I want to tell you this. If you come a single inch nearer to me, one of them shall shoot you."

"Your friend or your husband, eh?" he scoffed.

She waved him on.

"I think," she told him, "that either of them would be quite capable of ridding the world of a coward like you."

"A coward?" he repeated.

"Precisely! Isn't it a coward's part to terrorise a woman?"

"I don't want to terrorise you," he said sulkily.

"Well, you must admit that you haven't shown any particular desire to make yourself agreeable," she pointed out.

He turned suddenly upon her.

"I am a fool, I know," he declared bitterly. "I'm an awkward, nervous, miserable fool, my own worst enemy as they say of me in the Mess, turning the people against me I want to have like me, stumbling into every blunder a fool can. I'm the sort of man women make sport of, and you've done it for them cruelly, perfectly."

"Captain Griffiths!" she protested. "When have I ever been anything but kind and courteous to you?"

"It isn't your kindness I want, nor your courtesy! There's a curse upon my tongue," he went on desperately. "I'm not like other men. I don't know how to say what I feel. I can't put it into words. Every one misunderstands me. You, too! Here I rode up to you this afternoon and my heart was beating for joy, and in five minutes I had made an enemy of you. Damn that fellow Lessingham! It is all his fault!"

Without the slightest warning he brought down his hunting crop upon his horse's flanks. The mare gave one great plunge, and he was off, riding at a furious gallop. Philippa watched him with immense relief, In the far distance she could see two little specks growing larger and larger. She hurried on towards them.

"Whatever did you do to Captain Griffiths, Mummy?" Nora demanded. "Why he passed us without looking down, galloping like a madman, and his face looked—well, what did it look like, Helen?"

Helen was gazing uneasily along the sands.

"Like a man riding for his enemy," she declared.



CHAPTER XXVII

Philippa and Helen looked at one another a little dolefully across the luncheon table.

"I supposes one misses the child," Helen said.

"I feel too depressed for words," Philippa admitted.

"A few days ago," Helen reminded her companion, "we were getting all the excitement that was good for any one."

"And a little more," Philippa agreed. "I don't know why things seem so flat now. We really ought to be glad that nothing terrible has happened."

"What with Henry and Mr. Lessingham both away," Helen continued, "and Captain Griffiths not coming near the place, we really have reverted to the normal, haven't we? I wonder—if Mr. Lessingham has gone back."

"I do not think so," Philippa murmured.

Helen frowned slightly.

"Personally," she said, with some emphasis, "I hope that he has."

"If we are considering the personal point of view only," Philippa retorted, "I hope that he has not."

Helen looked her disapproval.

"I should have thought that you had had enough playing with fire," she observed.

"One never has until one has burned one's fingers," Philippa sighed. "I know perfectly well what is the matter with you," she continued severely. "You are fretting because curried chicken is Dick's favourite dish."

"I am not such a baby," Helen protested. "All the same, it does make one think. I wonder—"

"I know exactly what you were going to say," Philippa interrupted. "You were going to say that you wondered whether Mr. Lessingham would keep his promise."

"Whether he would be able to," Helen corrected. "It does seem so impossible, doesn't it?"

"So does Mr. Lessingham himself," Philippa reminded her. "It isn't exactly a usual thing, is it, to have a perfectly charming and well-bred young man step out of a Zeppelin into your drawing-room."

"You really believe, then," Helen asked eagerly, "that he will be able to keep his promise?"

Philippa nodded confidently.

"Do you know," she said, "I believe that Mr. Lessingham, by some means or another, would keep any promise he ever made. I am expecting to see Dick at any moment now, so you can get on with your lunch, dear, and not sit looking at the curry with tears in your eyes."

"It isn't the curry so much as the chutney," Helen protested faintly. "He never would touch any other sort."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if he were here to finish the bottle," Philippa declared. "I have a feeling this morning that something is going to happen."

"How long has Nora gone away for?" Helen enquired, after a moment's pause.

"A fortnight or three weeks," Philippa answered. "Her grandmother wired that she would be glad to have her until Christmas."

"Just why," Helen asked seriously, "have you sent her away?"

Philippa toyed with her curry, and glanced around as though she regretted Mills' absence from the room.

"I thought it best," she said quietly. "You see, I am not quite sure what the immediate future of this menage is going to be."

Helen leaned across the table and laid her hand upon her friend's.

"Dear," she sighed, "it worries me so to hear you talk like that."

"Why?"

"Because you know perfectly well, although you profess to ignore it, that at the bottom of your heart there is no one else but Henry. It isn't fair, you know."

"To whom isn't it fair?" Philippa demanded.

"To Mr. Lessingham."

Philippa was thoughtful for a few moments.

"Perhaps," she admitted, "that is a point of view which I have not sufficiently considered."

Helen pressed home her advantage.

"I don't think you realise, Philippa," she said, "how madly in love with you the man is. In a perfectly ingenuous way, too. No one could help seeing it."

"Then where does the unfairness come in?" Philippa asked. "It is within my power to give him all that he wants."

"But you wouldn't do it, Philippa. You know that you wouldn't!" Helen objected. "You may play with the idea in your mind, but that's just as far as you'd ever get."

Philippa looked her friend steadily in the face. "I disagree with you, Helen," she said. Helen set down the glass which she had been in the act of raising to her lips. It was her first really serious intimation of the tragedy which hovered over her future sister-in-law's life. Somehow or other, Philippa had seemed, even to her, so far removed from that strenuous world of over-drugged, over-excited feminine decadence, to whom the changing of a husband or a lover is merely an incident in the day's excitements. Philippa, with her frail and almost flowerlike beauty, her love of the wholesome ways of life, and her strong affections, represented other things. Now, for the first time, Helen was really afraid, afraid for her friend.

"But you couldn't ever—you wouldn't leave Henry!"

Philippa seemed to find nothing monstrous in the idea.

"That is just what I am seriously thinking of doing," she confided.

Helen affected to laugh, but her mirth was obviously forced. Their conversation ceased perforce with the return of Mills into the room.

Then the wonderful thing happened. The windows of the dining room faced the drive to the house and both women could clearly see a motor car turn in at the gate and stop at the front door. It was obviously a hired car, as the driver was not in livery, but the tall, mulled-up figure in unfamiliar clothes who occupied the front seat was for the moment a mystery to them. Only Helen seemed to have some wonderful premonition of the truth, a premonition which she was afraid to admit even to herself. Her hand began to shake. Philippa looked at her in amazement.

"You look as though you had seen a ghost, Helen!" she exclaimed. "Who on earth can it be, coming at this time of the day?"

Helen was speechless, and Philippa divined at once the cause of her agitation. She sprang to her feet.

"Helen, you don't imagine—" she gasped. "Listen!"

There was a voice in the hail—a familiar voice, though strained a little and hoarse; Mills' decorous greetings, agitated but fervent. And then—Major Richard Felstead!

"Dick!" Helen screamed, as she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Dick! Dick!"

It was an incoherent, breathless moment. Somehow or other, Philippa found herself sharing her brother's embrace. Then the fire of questions and answers was presently interrupted by Mills, triumphantly bearing in a fresh dish of curry.

"What will the Major take to drink, your ladyship?" he asked.

Felstead laughed a little chokingly.

"Upon my word, there's something wonderfully sound about Mills!" he said. "It's a ghoulish thing to ask for in the middle of the day, isn't it, Philippa, but can I have some champagne?"

"You can have the whole cellarful," Philippa assured him joyously. "Be sure you bring the best, Mills."

"The Perrier Jonet 1904, your ladyship," was the murmured reply.

Mills' disappearance was very brief, and in a very few moments they found themselves seated once more at the table. They sat one on either side of him, watching his glass and his plate. By degrees their questions and his answers became more intelligible.

"When did you get here?" they wanted to know.

"I arrived in Harwich about daylight this morning," he told them; "came across from Holland. I hired a car and drove straight here."

"When did you know you were coming home?" Helen asked.

"Only two days ago," he replied. "I never was so surprised in my life. Even now I can't realise my good luck. I can't see what I've done. The last two months, in fact, seem to me to have been a dream. Jove!" he went on, as he drank his wine, "I never thought I should be such a pig as to care so much for eating and drinking!"

"And think what weeks of it you have before you?" Helen explained, clapping her hands. "Philippa and I will have a new interest in life—to make you fat."

He laughed.

"It won't be very difficult," he promised them. "I had several months of semi-starvation before the miracle happened. It was all just the chance of having had a pal up at Magdalen who's been serving in the German Army—Bertram Maderstrom was his name. You remember him, Philippa? He was a Swede in those days."

"What a dear he must have been to have remembered and to have been so faithful!" Philippa observed, looking away for a moment.

"He's a real good sort," Felstead declared enthusiastically, "although Heaven knows why he's turned German! He worked like a slave for me. I dare say he didn't find it so difficult to get me better quarters and a servant, and decent food, but when they told me that I was free—well, it nearly knocked me silly."

"The dear fellow!" Philippa murmured pensively.

"Do you remember him, either of you?" Felstead continued. "Rather good-looking he was, and a little shy, but quite a sportsman."

"I—seem to remember," Philippa admitted.

"The name sounds familiar," Helen echoed. "Do have some more chutney, Dick."

"Thanks! What a pig I am making of myself!" he observed cheerfully. "You girls will think I can't talk about any one but Maderstrom, but the whole business beats me so completely. Of course, we were great pals, in a way, but I never thought that I was the apple of his eye, or anything of that sort. How he got the influence, too, I can't imagine. And oh! I knew there was something else I was going to ask you girls," Felstead went on. "Have you ever had a letter, or rather a letter each, uncensored? Just a line or two? I think I mentioned Maderstrom which I should not have been allowed to do in the ordinary prison letters."

Felstead was helping himself to cheese, and he saw nothing of the quick glance which passed between the two women.

"Yes, we had them, Dick," Philippa told him. "It was one afternoon—it doesn't seem so very long ago. And oh, how thankful we were!"

Felstead nodded.

"He got them across all right, then. Tell me, did they come through Holland? What was the postmark?"

"The postmark," Philippa repeated, a little doubtfully. "You heard what Dick asked, Helen? The postmark?"

"I don't think there was one," Helen replied, glancing anxiously at Philippa.

Felstead set down his glass.

"No postmark? You mean no foreign postmark, I suppose? They were posted in England, eh?"

Philippa shook her head.

"They came to us, Dick," she said, "by hand."

Felstead was, without a doubt, astonished. He turned round in his chair towards Philippa.

"By hand?" he repeated. "Do you mean to say that they were actually brought here by hand?"

Perhaps something in his manner warned them. Philippa laughed as she bent over his chair.

"We will tell you how they came, presently," she declared, "but not until you have finished your lunch, drunk the last drop of that champagne, and had at least two glasses of the port that Mills has been decanting so carefully. After that we will see. Just now I have only one feeling, and I know that Helen has it, too. Nothing else matters except that we have you home again."

Felstead patted his sister on the cheek, drew her face down to his and kissed her.

"It's so wonderful to be at home!" he exclaimed apologetically. "But I must warn you that I am the rabidest person alive. I went out to the war with a certain amount of respect for the Germans. I have come back loathing them like vermin. I spent—but I won't go on."

Mills made his appearance with the decanter of port.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he said, as he filled Felstead's glass, "but Mr. Lessingham has arrived and is in the library, waiting to see you."



CHAPTER XXVIII

To Major Richard Felstead, Mills' announcement was without significance. For the first time he became conscious, however, of something which seemed almost like a secret understanding between his sister and his fiancee.

"Tell Mr. Lessingham I shall be with him in a minute or two, if he will kindly wait," Philippa instructed.

"Who is Mr. Lessingham?" Richard enquired, as soon as the door had closed behind Mills. "Seems a queer time to call."

Helen glanced at Philippa, whose lips framed a decided negative.

"Mr. Lessingham is a gentleman staying in the neighbourhood," the latter replied. "You will probably make his acquaintance before long. Incidentally, he saved Henry's life the other night."

"Sounds exciting," Richard observed. "What form of destruction was Henry courting?"

"There was a trawler shipwrecked in the storm," Philippa explained. "You can see it from all the front windows. Henry was on board, returning from one of his fishing excursions. They were trying to find Dumble's anchorage and were driven in on to that low ridge of rock. A rope broke, or something, they had no more rockets, and Mr. Lessingham swam out with the line."

"Sounds like a plucky chap," Richard admitted.

Philippa rose to her feet regretfully.

"I expect he has come to wish us good-by," she said. "I'll leave you with Helen, Dick. Don't let her overfeed you. And you know where the cigars are, Helen. Take Dick into the gun room afterwards. You'll have it all to yourselves and there is a fire there."

Philippa entered the library in a state of agitation for which she was glad to have some reasonable excuse. She held out both her hands to Lessingham.

"Dick is back—just arrived!" she exclaimed. "I can't tell you how happy we are, and how grateful!"

Lessingham raised her fingers to his lips.

"I am glad," he said simply. "Do you mean that he is in the house here, now?"

"He is in the dining room with Helen."

Lessingham for a moment was thoughtful.

"Don't you think," he suggested, "that it would be better to keep us apart?"

"I was wondering," she confessed.

"Have you told him about my bringing the letters?"

She shook her head.

"We nearly did. Then I stopped—I wasn't sure."

"You were wise," he said.

"Are you wise?" she asked him quickly.

"In coming back here?"

She nodded.

"Captain Griffiths knows everything," she reminded him. "He is simply furious because your arrest was interfered with. I really believe that he is dangerous."

Lessingham was unmoved.

"I had to come back," he said simply.

"Why did you go away so suddenly?"

"Well, I had to do that, too," he replied, "only the governing causes were very different. We will speak, if you do not mind, only of the cause which has brought me back. That I believe you know already."

Philippa was curiously afraid. She looked towards the door as though with some vague hope of escape. She realised that the necessity for decision had arrived.

"Philippa," he went on, "do you see what this is?"

He handed her two folded slips of paper. She started. At the top of one she recognised a small photograph of herself.

"What are they?" she asked. "What does it mean?"

"They are passports for America," he told her.

"For—for me?" she faltered.

"For you and me."

They slipped from her fingers. He picked them up from the carpet. Her face was hidden for a moment in her hands.

"I know so well how you are feeling," he said humbly. "I know how terrible a shock this must seem to you when it comes so near. You are so different from the other women who might do this thing. It is so much harder for you than for them."

She lifted her head. There was still something of the look of a scared child in her face.

"Don't imagine me better than I am," she begged. "I am not really different from any other woman, only it is the first time this sort of thing has ever come into my life."

"I know. You see," he went on, a little wistfully, "you have not taken me, as yet, very far into your confidence, Philippa. You know that I love you as a man loves only once. It sounds like an empty phrase to say it, but if you will give me your life to take care of, I shall only have one thought—to make you happy. Could I succeed? That is what you have to ask yourself. You are not happy now. Do you think that, if you stay on here, the future is likely to be any better for you?"

She shook her head drearily.

"I believe," she confessed, "that I have reached the very limit of my endurance."

He came a little nearer. His hands rested upon her shoulders very lightly, yet they seemed like some enveloping chain. More than ever in those few moments she realised the spiritual qualities of his face. His eyes were aglow. His voice, a little broken with emotion, was wonderfully tender. He looked at her as though she were some precious and sacred thing.

"I am rich," he said, "and there are few parts of the world where we could not live. We could find our way to the islands, like your great writer Stevenson in whom you delight so much; islands full of colour, and wonderful birds, and strange blue skies; islands where the peace of the tropics dulls memory, and time heats only in the heart. The world is a great place, Philippa, and there are corners where the sordid crime of this ghastly butchery has scarcely been heard of, where the horror and the taint of it are as though they never existed, where the sun and moon are still unashamed, and the grey monsters ride nowhere upon the sapphire seas."

"It sounds like a fairy tale," she murmured, with a half pathetic smile.

"Love always fashions life like a fairy tale," he replied.

She stood perfectly still.

"You must have my answer now, at this moment?" she asked at last.

"There are yet some hours," he told her. "I have a very powerful automobile here, and to-night there is a full moon. If we leave here at ten o'clock, we can catch the steamer to-morrow afternoon. Everything has been made very easy for me. And fortune, too, is with us—your vindictive commandant, Captain Griffiths, is in London. You see, you have the whole afternoon for thought. I want you only for your happiness. At ten o'clock I shall come here. If you are coming with me, you must be ready then. You understand?"

"I understand," she assented, under her breath. "And now," she went on, raising her eyes, "somehow I think that you are right. It would be better for you and Dick not to meet."

"I am sure of it," he agreed. "I shall come for my answer at ten o'clock. I wonder—"

He stood looking at her, his eyes hungry to find some sign in her face. There was so much kindness there, so much that might pass, even, for affection, and yet something which, behind it all, chilled his confidence. He left his sentence uncompleted and turned towards the door. Suddenly she called him back. She held up her finger. Her whole expression had changed. She was alarmed.

"Wait!" she begged. "I can hear Dick's voice. Wait till he has crossed the hail."

They both stood, for a moment, quite silent. Then they heard a little protesting cry from Helen, and a good-humoured laugh from Richard. The door was thrown open.

"You don't mind our coming through to the gun room, Phil?" her brother asked. "We're not—My God!"

There was a queer silence, broken by Helen, who stood on the threshold, the picture of distress.

"I tried to get him to go the other way, Philippa."

Richard took a quick step forward. His hands were outstretched.

"Bertram!" he exclaimed. "Is this a miracle? You here with my sister?"

Lessingham held out his hand. Suddenly Richard dropped his. His expression had become sterner.

"I don't understand," he said simply. "Somebody please explain."



CHAPTER XXIX

For a few brief seconds no one seemed inclined to take upon themselves the onus of speech. Richard's amazement seemed to increase upon reflection.

"Maderstrom!" he exclaimed. "Bertram! What in the name of all that's diabolical are you doing here?"

"I am just a derelict," Lessingham explained, with a faint smile. "Glad to see you, Richard. You are a day earlier than I expected."

"You knew that I was coming, then?" Richard demanded.

"Naturally," Lessingham replied. "I had the great pleasure of arranging for your release."

"Look here," Richard went on, "I'm groping about a bit. I don't understand. Forgive me if I run off the track. I'm not forgetting our friendship, Maderstrom, or what I owe to you since you came and found me at Wittenburg. But for all that, you have served in the German Army and are an enemy, and I want to know what you are doing here, in England, in my brother-in-law's house."

"No particular harm, Richard, I promise you," Lessingham replied mildly.

"You are here under a false name!"

"Hamar Lessingham, if you do not mind," the other assented. "I prefer my own name, but I do not fancy that the use of it would ensure me a very warm welcome over here just now. Besides," he added, with a glance at Philippa, "I have to consider the friends whose hospitality I have enjoyed."

In a shadowy sort of way the truth began to dawn upon Richard. His tone became grimmer and his manner more menacing.

"Maderstrom," he said, "we met last under different circumstances. I will admit that I cut a poor figure, but mine was at least an honourable imprisonment. I am not so sure that yours is an honourable freedom."

Philippa laid her hand upon her brother's arm.

"Dick, dear, do remember that they were starving you to death!" she begged.

"You would never have lived through it," Helen echoed.

"You are talking to Mr. Lessingham," Philippa protested, "as though he were an enemy, instead of the best friend you ever had in your life."

Richard waved them away.

"You must leave this to us," he insisted. "Maderstrom and I will be able to understand one another, at any rate. What are you doing in this house—in England? What is your mission here?"

"Whatever it may have been, it is accomplished," Lessingham said gravely. "At the present moment, my plans are to leave your country to-night."

"Accomplished?" Richard repeated. "What the devil do you mean? Accomplished? Are you playing the spy in this country?"

"You would probably consider my mission espionage," Lessingham admitted.

"And you have brought it to a successful conclusion?"

"I have."

Philippa threw her arms around her brother's neck. "Dick," she pleaded, "please listen. Mr. Lessingham has been here, in this district, ever since he landed in England. What possible harm could he do? We haven't a single secret to be learned. Everybody knows where our few guns are. Everybody knows where our soldiers are quartered. We haven't a harbour or any secret fortifications. We haven't any shipping information which it would be of the least use signalling anywhere. Mr. Lessingham has spent his time amongst trifles here. Take Helen away somewhere and forget that you have seen him in the house. Remember that he has saved Henry's life as well as yours."

"I invite no consideration upon that account," Lessingham declared. "All that I did for you in Germany, I did, or should have attempted to do, for my old friend. Your release was different. I am forced to admit that it was the price paid for my sojourn here. I will only ask you to remember that the bargain was made without your knowledge, and that you are in no way responsible for it."

"A price," Richard pronounced fiercely, "which I refuse to pay!"

Lessingham shrugged his shoulders.

"The alternative," he confessed, "is in your hands."

Richard moved towards the telephone.

"I am sorry, Maderstrom," he said, "but my duty is clear. Who is Commandant here, Philippa?"

Philippa stood between her brother and the telephone. There was a queer, angry patch of colour in her cheeks. Her eyes were on fire.

"Richard," she exclaimed, "you shall not do this from my house! I forbid you!"

"Do what?"

"Give information. Do you know what it would mean if they believed you?"

"Death," he answered. "Maderstrom knew the risk he ran when he came to this country under a false name."

"Perfectly," Lessingham admitted.

"But I won't have it!" Philippa protested. "He has become our friend. Day by day we have grown to like him better and better. He has saved your life, Dick. He has brought you back to us. Think what it is that you purpose!"

"It is what every soldier has to face," Richard declared.

"You men drive me crazy with your foolish ideas!" Philippa cried desperately. "The war is in your brains, I think. You would carry it from the battlefields into your daily life. Because two great countries are at war, is everything to go by—chivalry?—all the finer, sweeter feelings of life? If you two met on the battlefield, it would be different. Here in my drawing-room, I will not have this black demon of the war dragged in as an excuse for murder! Take Dick away, Helen!" she begged. "Mr. Lessingham is leaving to-night. I will pledge my word that until then he remains a harmless citizen."

"Women don't understand these things, Philippa—" Richard began.

"Thank heavens we understand them better than you men!" Philippa interrupted fiercely. "You have but one idea—to strike—the narrow idea of men that breeds warfare. I tell you that if ever universal peace comes, if ever the nations are taught the horror of this lust for blood, this criminal outrage against civilisation, it is the women who will become the teachers, because amongst your instincts the brutish ones of force are the first to leap to the surface at the slightest provocation. We women see further, we know more. I swear to you, Richard, that if you interfere I will never forgive you as long as I live!"

Richard stared at his sister in amazement. There seemed to be some new spirit born within her. Throughout all their days he had never known her so much in earnest, so passionately insistent. He looked from her to the man whom she sought to protect, and who answered, unasked, the thoughts that were in his mind.

"Whatever harm I may have been able to do," Lessingham announced, "is finished. I leave this place to-night, probably for ever. As for the Commandant," he went on with a faint smile, "he is already upon my track. There is nothing you can tell him about me which he does not know. It is just a matter of hours, the toss of a coin, whether I get away or not."

"They've found you out, then?" Richard exclaimed.

"Only a miracle saved me from arrest a week ago," Lessingham acknowledged. "Your Commandant here is at the present moment in London for the sole purpose of denouncing me."

"And yet you remain here, paying afternoon calls?" Richard observed incredulously. "I'm hanged if I can see through this!"

"You see," Lessingham explained gently. "I am a fatalist!"

It was Helen who finally led her lover from the room. He looked back from the door.

"Maderstrom," he said, "you know quite well how personally I feel towards you. I am grateful for what you have done for me, even though I am beginning to understand your motives. But as regards the other things we are both soldiers. I am going to talk to Helen for a time. I want to understand a little more than I do at present."

Lessingham nodded.

"Let me help you," he begged. "Here is the issue in plain words. All that I did for you at Wittenberg, I should have done in any case for the sake of our friendship. Your freedom would probably never have been granted to me but for my mission, although even that I might have tried to arrange. I brought your letters here, and I traded them with your sister and Miss Fairclough for the shelter of their hospitality and their guarantees. Now you know just where friendship ended and the other things began. Do what you believe to be your duty."

Richard followed Helen out, closing the door after him. Lessingham looked down into Philippa's face.

"You are more wonderful even than I thought," he continued softly. "You say so little and you live so near the truth. It is those of us who feel as you do—who understand—to whom this war is so terrible."

"I want to ask you one question before I send you away," she told him. "This journey to America?"

"It is a mission on behalf of Germany," he explained, "but it is, after all, an open one. I have friends—highly placed friends—in my own country, who in their hearts feel as I do about the war. It is through them that I am able to turn my back upon Europe. I have done my share of fighting," he went on sadly, "and the horror of it will never quite leave me. I think that no one has ever charged me with shirking my duty, and yet the sheer, black ugliness of this ghastly struggle, its criminal inutility, have got into my blood so that I think I would rather pass out of the world in some simple way than find myself back again in that debauch of blood. Is this cowardice, Philippa?"

She looked at him with shining eyes.

"There isn't any one in the world," she said, "who could call you a coward. Whatever I may decide, whatever I may feel towards you, that at least I know."

He kissed her fingers.

"At ten o'clock," he began—

"But listen," she interrupted. "Apart from anything which Dick might do, you are in terrible danger here, all the more if you really have accomplished something. Why not go now, at this moment? Why wait? These few hours may make all the difference."

He smiled.

"They may, indeed, make all the difference to my life," he answered. "That is for you."

He followed Mills, who had obeyed her summons, out of the room. Philippa moved to the window and watched him until he had disappeared. Then very slowly she left the room, walked up the stairs, made her way to her own little suite of apartments, and locked the door.



CHAPTER XXX

It was a happy, if a trifle hysterical little dinner party that evening at Mainsail Haul. Philippa was at times unusually silent, but Helen had expanded in the joy of her great happiness. Richard, shaved and with his hair cut, attired once more in the garb of civilisation, seemed a different person. Even in these few hours the lines about his mouth seemed less pronounced. They talked freely of Maderstrom.

"A regular 'Vanity Fair' problem," Richard declared, balancing his wine glass between his fingers, "a problem, too, which I can't say I have solved altogether yet. The only thing is that if he is really going to-night, I don't see why I shouldn't let the matter drift out of my mind."

"It is so much better," Helen agreed. "Try as hard as ever I can, I cannot picture his doing any harm to anybody. And as for any information he may have gained here, well, I think that we can safely let him take it back to Germany."

"He was always," Richard continued reminiscently, "a sort of cross between a dreamer, an idealist, and a sportsman. There was never anything of the practical man of affairs about him. He was scrupulously honourable, and almost a purist in his outlook upon life. I have met a great many Germans," Richard went on, "and I've killed a few, thank God!—but he is about as unlike the ordinary type as any one I ever met. The only pity is that he ever served his time with them."

Philippa had been listening attentively. She was more than ever silent after her brother's little appreciation of his friend. Richard glanced at her good-humouredly.

"You haven't killed the fatted calf for me in the shape of clothes, Philippa," he observed. "One would think that you were going on a journey."

She glanced down at her high-necked gown and avoided Helen's anxious eyes.

"I may go for a walk," she said, "and leave you two young people to talk secrets. I am rather fond of the garden these moonlight nights."

"When is Henry coming back?" her brother enquired.

Philippa's manner was quiet but ominous.

"I have no idea," she confessed. "He comes and goes as the whim seizes him, and I very seldom know where he is. One week it is whiting and another codling. Lately he seems to have shown some partiality for London life."

Richard's eyes were wide open now.

"You mean to say that he is still not doing anything?"

"Nothing whatever."

"But what excuse does he give—or rather I should say reason?" Richard persisted.

"He says that he is too old for a ship, and he won't work in an office," Philippa replied. "That is what he says. His point of view is so impossible that I can not even discuss it with him."

"It's the rummest go I ever came across," Richard remarked reminiscently. "I should have said that old Henry would have been up and at 'em at the Admiralty before the first gun was fired."

"On the contrary," Philippa rejoined, "he took advantage of the war to hire a Scotch moor at half-price, about a week after hostilities had commenced."

"It's a rum go," Richard repeated. "I can't fancy Henry as a skulker. Forgive me, Philippa," he added.

"You are entirely forgiven," she assured him drily.

"He comes of such a fine fighting stock," Richard mused. "I suppose his health is all right?"

"His health," Philippa declared, "is marvellous. I should think he is one of the strongest men I know."

Her brother patted her hand.

"You've been making rather a trouble of it, old girl," he said affectionately. "It's no good doing that, you know. You wait and let me have a talk with Henry."

"I think," she replied, "that nearly everything possible has already been said to him."

"Perhaps you've put his back up a bit," Richard suggested, "and he may really be on the lookout for something all the time."

"It has been a long search!" Philippa retorted, with quiet sarcasm. "Let us talk about something else."

They gossiped for a time over acquaintances and relations, made their plans for the week—Richard must report at the War Office at once.

Philippa grew more and more silent as the meal drew to a close. It was at Helen's initiative that they left Richard alone for a moment over his port. She kept her arm through her friend's as they crossed the hall into the drawing-room, and closed the door behind them. Philippa stood upon the hearth rug. Already her mouth had come together in a straight line. Her eyes met Helen's defiantly.

"I know exactly what you are going to say, Helen," she began, "and I warn you that it will be of no use."

Helen drew up a small chair and seated herself before the fire.

"Are you going away with Mr. Lessingham, Philippa?" she asked.

"I am," was the calm response. "I made up my mind this afternoon. We are leaving to-night."

Helen stretched out one foot to the blaze.

"Motoring?" she enquired.

"Naturally," Philippa replied. "You know there are no trains leaving here to-night."

"You'll have a cold ride," Helen remarked. "I should take your heavy fur coat."

Philippa stared at her companion.

"You don't seem much upset, Helen!"

"I think," Helen declared, looking up, "that nothing that has ever happened to me in my life has made me more unhappy, but I can see that you have reasoned it all out, and there is not a single argument I could use which you haven't already discounted. It is your life, Philippa, not mine."

"Since you are so philosophical," Philippa observed, "let me ask you—should you do what I am going to do, if you were in my place?"

"I should not," was the firm reply.

Philippa laughed heartily.

"Oh, I know what you are going to say!" Helen continued quickly. "You'll tell me, won't you, that I am not temperamental. I think in your heart you rather despise my absolute fidelity to Richard. You would call it cowlike, or something of that sort. There is a difference between us, Philippa, and that is why I am afraid to argue with you."

"What should you do," Philippa demanded, "if Richard failed you in some great thing?"

"I might suffer," Helen confessed, "but my love would be there all the same. Perhaps for that reason I should suffer the more, but I should never be able to see with those who judged him hardly."

"You think, then," Philippa persisted, "that I ought still to remain Henry's loving and affectionate wife, ready to take my place amongst the pastimes of his life—when he feels inclined, for instance, to wander from his dark lady-love to something petite and of my complexion, or when he settles down at home for a few days after a fortnight's sport on the sea and expects me to tell him the war news?"

"I don't think that I should do that," Helen admitted quietly, "but I am quite certain that I shouldn't run away with another man."

"Why not?"

"Because I should be punishing myself too much."

Philippa's eyes suddenly flashed.

"Helen," she said, "you are not such a fool as you try to make me think. Can't you see what is really at the back of it all in my mind? Can't you realise that, whatever the punishment it may bring, it will punish Henry more?"

"I see," Helen observed. "You are running away with Mr. Lessingham to annoy Henry?"

"Oh, he'll be more than annoyed!" Philippa laughed sardonically. "He has terrible ideas about the sanctity of things that belong to him. He'll be remarkably sheepish for some time to come. He may even feel a few little stabs. When I have time, I am going to write him a letter which he can keep for the rest of his life. It won't please him!"

"Where are you—and Mr. Lessingham going to live?" Helen enquired.

"In America, to start with. I've always longed to go to the States."

"What shall you do," Helen continued, "if you don't get out of the country safely?"

"Mr. Lessingham seems quite sure that we shall," Philippa replied, "and he seems a person of many expedients. Of course, if we didn't, I should go back to Cheshire. I should have gone back there, anyway, before now, if Mr. Lessingham hadn't come."

"Well, it all seems very simple," Helen admitted. "I think Mr. Lessingham is a perfectly delightful person, and I shouldn't wonder if you didn't now and then almost imagine that you were happy."

"You seem to be taking my going very coolly," Philippa remarked.

"I told you how I felt about it just now," Helen reminded her. "Your going is like a great black cloud that I have seen growing larger and larger, day by day. I think that, in his way, Dick will suffer just as much as Henry. We shall all be utterly miserable."

"Why don't you try and persuade me not to go, then?" Philippa demanded. "You sit there talking about it as though I were going on an ordinary country-house visit."

Helen raised her head, and Philippa saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"Philippa dear," she said, "if I thought that all the tears that were ever shed, all the words that were ever dragged from one's heart, could have any real effect, I'd go on my knees to you now and implore you to give up this idea. But I think—you won't be angry with me, dear?—I think you would go just the same."

"You seem to think that I am obstinate," Philippa complained.

"You see, you are temperamental, dear," Helen reminded her. "You have a complex nature. I know very well that you need the daily love that Henry doesn't seem to have been willing to give you lately, and I couldn't stop your turning towards the sun, you know. Only—all the time there's that terrible anxiety—are you quite sure it is the sun?"

"You believe in Mr. Lessingham, don't you?" Philippa asked.

"I do indeed," Helen replied. "I am not quite sure, though, that I believe in you."

Philippa was a little startled.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Exactly what do you mean by that, Helen?"

"I am not quite sure," Helen continued, "that when the moment has really come, and your head is upturned and your arms outstretched, and your feet have left this world in which you are now, I am not quite sure that you will find all that you seek."

"You think he doesn't love me?"

"I am not convinced," Helen replied calmly, "that you love him."

"Why, you idiot," Philippa declared feverishly, "of course I love him! I think he is one of the sweetest, most lovable persons I ever knew, and as to his being a Swede, I shouldn't care whether he were a Fiji Islander or a Chinese."

Helen nodded sympathetically.

"I agree with you," she said, "but listen. You know that I haven't uttered a single word to dissuade you. Well, then, grant me just one thing. Before you start off this evening, tell Mr. Lessingham the truth, whatever it may be, the truth which you haven't told me. It very likely won't make any difference. Two people as nice as you and he, who are going to join their lives, generally do, I believe, find the things they seek. Still, tell him."

Philippa made no reply. Richard opened the door and lingered upon the threshold. Helen rose to her feet.

"I am coming, Dick," she called out cheerfully. "There's a gorgeous fire in the gun room, and two big easy-chairs, and we'll have just the time I have been looking forward to all day. You'll tell me things, won't you?"

She looked very sweet as she came towards him, her eyes raised to him, her face full of the one happiness. He passed his arm around her waist.

"I'll try, dear," he said. "You won't be lonely, Philippa?"

"I'll come and disturb you when I am," she promised.

The door closed. She stood gazing down into the fire, listening to their footsteps as they crossed the hall.



CHAPTER XXXI

Lessingham stood for a moment by the side of the car from which he had just descended, glanced at the huge tires and the tins of petrol lashed on behind.

"Nothing more you want, chauffeur?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir," was the almost inaudible reply.

"You have the route map?"

"Yes, sir, and enough petrol for three hundred miles."

Lessingham turned away, pushed open the gate, and walked up the drive of Mainsail Haul. Decidedly it was the moment of his life. He was hard-pressed, as he knew, by others besides Griffiths. A few hours now was all the start he could reasonably expect. He was face to face with a very real and serious danger, which he could no longer ignore, and from which escape was all the time becoming more difficult. And yet all the emotionalism of this climax was centered elsewhere. It was from Philippa's lips that he would hear his real sentence; it was her answer which would fill him once more with the lust for life, or send him on in his rush through the night for safety, callous, almost indifferent as to its result.

He walked up the drive, curiously at his ease, in a state of suspended animation, which knew no hope and feared no disappointment. Just before he reached the front door, the postern gate in the wall on his left-hand side opened, and Philippa stood there, muffled up in her fur coat, framed in the faint and shadowy moonlight against the background of seabounded space. He moved eagerly towards her.

"I heard the car," she whispered. "Come and sit down for a moment. It isn't in the least cold, and the moon is just coming up over the sea. I came out," she went on, as he walked obediently by her side, "because the house somehow stifled me."

She led him to a seat. Below, the long waves were breaking through upon the rocks, throwing little fountains of spray into the air. The village which lay at their feet was silent and lifeless—there was, indeed, a curious absence of sound, except when the incoming waves broke upon the rocks and ground the pebbles together in their long, backward swish. Very soon the sleeping country, now wrapped in shadows, would take form and outline in the light of the rising moon; hedges would divide the square fields, the black woods would take shape and the hills their mystic solemnity. But those few minutes were minutes of suspense. Lessingham was to some extent conscious of their queer, allegorical significance.

"I have come," he reminded her quite steadily, "for my answer."

She showed him the small bag by her side upon the seat, and touched her cloak. She was indeed prepared for a journey.

"You see," she told him, "here I am."

His face was suddenly transformed. She was almost afraid of the effect of her words. She found herself struggling in his arms.

"Not yet," she begged. "Please remember where we are."

He released her reluctantly. A few yards away, they could hear the soft purring of the six-cylinder engine, inexorable reminder of the passing moments. He caught her by the hand.

"Come," he whispered passionately. "Every moment is precious."

She hesitated no longer. The open postern gate seemed to him suddenly to lead down the great thoroughfare of a new and splendid life. He was to be one of those favoured few to whom was given the divine prize. And then he stopped short, even while she walked willingly by his side. He knew so well the need for haste. The gentle murmur of that engine was inviting him all the while. Yet he knew there was one thing more which must be said.

"Philippa," he began, "you know what we are doing? We can escape, I believe. My flight is all wonderfully arranged. But there will be no coming back. It will be all over when our car passes over the hills there. You will not regret? You care enough even for this supreme sacrifice?"

"I shall never reproach you as long as I live," she promised. "I have made up my mind to come, and I am ready."

"But it is because you care?" he pleaded anxiously.

"It is because I care, for one reason."

"In the great way?" he persisted. "In the only way?"

She hesitated. He suddenly felt her hand grow colder in his. He saw her frame shiver beneath its weight of furs.

"Don't ask me quite that," she begged breathlessly. "Be content to know that I have counted the cost, and that I am willing to come."

He felt the chill of impending disaster. He closed the little gate through which they had been about to pass, and stood with his back to it. In that faint light which seemed to creep over the world before the moon itself was revealed, she seemed to him at that moment the fairest, the most desirable thing on earth. Her face was upturned towards his, half pathetic, half protesting against the revelation which he was forcing from her.

"Listen, Philippa," he said, "Miss Fairclough warned me of one thing. I put it on one side. It did not seem to be possible. Now I must ask you a question. You have some other motive, have you not, for choosing to come away with me? It is not only because you love me better than any one else in the world, as I do you, and therefore that we belong to one another and it is right and good that we should spend our lives in one another's company? There is something else, is there not, at the root of your determination? Some ally?"

It was a strange moment for Philippa. Nothing had altered within her, and yet a wonderful pity was glowing in her heart, tearing at her emotions, bringing a sob into her throat.

"You mean—Henry?" she faltered.

"I mean your husband," he assented.

She was suddenly passionately angry with herself. It seemed to her that the days of childishness were back. She was behaving like an imbecile whilst he played the great game.

"You see," he went on, his own voice a little unsteady, "this is one of those moments in both our lives when anything except the exact truth would mean shipwreck. You still love your husband?"

"I am such a fool!" she sobbed, clutching at his arm.

"You were willing to go away with me," he continued mercilessly, "partly because of the anger you felt towards him, and partly out of revenge, and just a little because you liked me. Is that not so?"

Her head pressed upon his arm. She nodded. It was just that convulsive movement of her head, with its wealth of wonderful hair and its plain black motoring hat, which dealt the death-blow to his hopes. She was just a child once more—and she trusted him.

"Very well, then," he said, "just let me think—for a moment."

She understood enough not to raise her head. Lessingham was gazing out through the chaotic shadows of the distant banks of clouds from which the moon was rising. Already the pain had begun, and yet with it was that queer sense of exaltation which comes with sacrifice.

"We have been very nearly foolish," he told her, with grave kindliness. "It is well, perhaps, that we were in time. Those windows which lead into your library,—through which I first came to you, by-the-by,—" he added, with a strange, reminiscent little sigh, "are they open?"

"Yes!" she whispered.

"Come, then," he invited. "Before I leave there is something I want to make clear to you."

They made their way rather like two conspirators along the little terraced walk. Philippa opened the window and closed it again behind them. The room was empty. Lessingham, watching her closely, almost groaned as he saw the wonderful relief in her face. She threw off the cloak, and he groaned again as he remembered how nearly it had been his task to remove it. In her plain travelling dress, she turned and looked at him very pathetically.

"You have, perhaps, a morning paper here?" he enquired.

"A newspaper? Why, yes, the Times," she answered, a little surprised.

He took it from the table towards which she pointed, and held it under the lamplight. Presently he called to her. His forefinger rested upon a certain column.

"Read this," he directed.

She read it out in a tone which passed from surprise to blank wonder:

Commander Sir Henry Cranston, Baronet, to receive the D.S.O. for special services, and to be promoted to the rank of Acting Rear-Admiral.

"What does it mean?" she asked feverishly. "Henry? A D.S.O. for Henry for special services?"

"It means," he told her, with a forced smile, "that your husband is, as you put it in your expressive language, a fraud."



CHAPTER XXXII

For a moment Philippa was unsteady upon her feet. Lessingham led her to a chair. From outside came the low, cautious hooting of the motor horn, calling to its dilatory passenger.

"I can not, of course, explain everything to you," he began, in a tone of unusual restraint, "but I do know that for the last two years your husband has been responsible to the Admiralty for most of the mine fields around your east coast. To begin with, his stay in Scotland was a sham. He was most of the time with the fleet and round the coasts. His fishing excursions from here have been of the same order, only more so. All the places of importance, from here to the mouth of the Thames, have been mined, or rather the approaches to them have been mined, under his instructions. My mission in this country, here at Dreymarsh—do not shrink from me if you can help it—was to obtain a copy of his mine protection scheme of a certain town on the east coast."

"Why should I shrink from you?" she murmured. "This is all too wonderful! What a little beast Henry must think me!" she added, with truly feminine and marvellously selfish irrelevance.

"You and Miss Fairclough," Lessingham went on, "have rather scoffed at my presence here on behalf of our Secret Service. It seemed to you both very ridiculous. Now you understand."

"It makes no difference," Philippa protested tearfully. "You always told us the truth."

"And I shall continue to do so," Lessingham assured her. "I am not a clever person at my work which is all new to me, but fortune favoured me the night your husband was shipwrecked. I succeeded in stealing from him, on board that wrecked trawler, the plan of the mine field which I was sent over to procure."

"Of course you had to do it if you could," Philippa sobbed. "I think it was very clever of you."

He smiled.

"There are others who might look at the matter differently," he said. "I am going to ask you a question which I know is unnecessary, but I must have your answer to take away with me. If you had known all the time that your husband, instead of being a skulker, as you thought him, was really doing splendid work for his country, you would not have listened to me for one moment, would you? You would not have let me grow to love you?"

She clutched his hands.

"You are the dearest man in the world," she exclaimed, her lips still quivering, "but, as you say, you know the answer. I was always in love with Henry. It was because I loved him that I was so furious. I liked you so much that it was mean of me ever to think of—of what so nearly happened."

"So nearly happened!" he repeated, with a sudden access of the bitterest self-pity.

Once more the low, warning hoot of the motor horn, this time a little more impatient, broke the silence. Philippa was filled with an unreasoning terror.

"You must go!" she implored. "You must go this minute! If they were to take you, I couldn't bear it. And that man Griffiths—he has sworn that if he can not get the Government authority, he will shoot you!"

"Griffiths has gone to London," he reminded her.

"Yes, but he may be back by this train," she cried, glancing at the clock, "and I have a strange sort of fancy—I have had it all day—that Henry might come, too. It is overdue now. Any one might arrive here. Oh, please, for my sake, hurry away!" she begged, the tears streaming from her eyes. "If anything should happen, I could never forgive myself. It is because you have been so dear, so true and honourable, that all this time has been wasted. If it were to cost you your life!"

She was seized by a fit of nervous anxiety which became almost a paroxysm. She buttoned his coat for him and almost dragged him to the door. And then she stopped for a moment to listen. Her eyes became distended. Her lips were parted. She shook as though with an ague.

"It is too late!" she faltered hysterically. "I can hear Henry's voice! Quick! Come to the window. You must get out that way and through the postern gate."

"Your husband will have seen the car," he protested. "And besides, there is your dressing-bag and your travelling coat."

"I shall tell him everything," she declared wildly. "Nothing matters except that you escape. Oh, hurry! I can hear Henry talking to Jimmy Dumble—for God's sake—"

The words died away upon her lips. The door had been opened and closed again immediately. There was the quick turn of the lock, sounding like the click of fate. Sir Henry, well inside the room, nodded to them both affably.

"Well, Philippa? You weren't expecting me, eh? Hullo, Lessingham! Not gone yet? Running it a trifle fine, aren't you?"

Lessingham glanced towards the fastened door.

"Perhaps," he admitted, "a trifle too fine."

Sir Henry was suddenly taken by storm. Philippa had thrown herself into his arms. Her fingers were locked around his neck. Her lips, her eyes, were pleading with him.

"Henry! Henry, you must forgive me! I never knew—I never dreamed what you were really doing. I shall never forgive myself, but you—you will be generous."

"That's all right, dear," he promised, stooping down to kiss her. "Partly my fault, of course. I had to humour those old ladies down at Whitehall who wanted me to pose as a particularly harmless idiot. You see," he went on, glancing towards Lessingham, "they were always afraid that my steps might be dogged by spies, if my position were generally known."

Philippa did not relinquish her attitude. She was still clinging to her husband. She refused to let him go.

"Henry," she begged, "oh, listen to me! I have so much to confess, so much of which I am ashamed! And yet, with it all, I want to entreat—to implore one great favour from you."

Sir Henry looked down into his wife's face.

"Is it one I can grant?" he asked gravely.

"If you want me ever to be happy again, you will," she sobbed. "For Helen's sake as well as mine, help Mr. Lessingham to escape."

Lessingham took a quick step forward. He had the air of one who has reached the limits of his endurance.

"You mean this kindly, Lady Cranston, I know," he said, "but I desire no intervention."

Sir Henry patted his wife's hand and held her a little away from him. There was a curious but unmistakable change in his deportment. His mouth had not altogether lost its humorous twist, but his jaw seemed more apparent, the light in his eyes was keener, and there was a ring of authority in his tone.

"Come," he said, "let us understand one another, Philippa, and you had better listen, too, Mr. Lessingham. I can promise you that your chances of escape will not be diminished by my taking up these few minutes of your time. Philippa," he went on, turning back to her, "you have always posed as being an exceedingly patriotic Englishwoman, yet it seems to me that you have made a bargain with this man, knowing full well that he was in the service of Germany, to give him shelter and hospitality here, access to my house and protection amongst your friends, in return for certain favours shown towards your brother."

Philippa was speechless. It was a view of the matter which she and Helen had striven so eagerly to avoid.

"But, Henry," she protested, "his stay here seemed so harmless. You yourself have laughed at the idea of espionage at Dreymarsh. There is nothing to discover. There is nothing going on here which the whole world might not know."

"That was never my plea," Lessingham intervened.

"Nor is it the truth," Sir Henry added sternly.

"The Baron Maderstrom was sent here, Philippa, to spy upon me, to gain access by any means to this house, to steal, if he could, certain plans and charts prepared by me."

Philippa began to tremble. She seemed bereft of words.

"He told me this," she faltered. "He told me not half an hour ago."

There was a tapping at the door. Sir Henry moved towards it but did not turn the key.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Captain Griffiths is here with an escort, sir," Mills announced. "He has seized the motor car outside, and he begs to be allowed to come in."



CHAPTER XXXIII

Mills' words were plainly audible throughout the room. Philippa made eager signs to Lessingham, pointing to the French windows. Lessingham, however, shook his head.

"I prefer," he said gently, "to finish my conversation with your husband."'

There was another and more insistent summons from outside. This time it was Captain Griffiths' raucous voice.

"Sir Henry Cranston," he called out, "I am here with authority. I beg to be admitted."

"Where is your escort?"

"In the hall."

"If I let you come in," Sir Henry continued, "will you come alone?"

"I should prefer it," was the eager reply. "I wish to make this business as little unpleasant to—to everybody as possible."

Sir Henry softly turned the key, opened the door, and admitted Griffiths. The man seemed to see no one else but Lessingham. He would have hastened at once towards him, but Sir Henry laid his hand upon his arm.

"You must kindly restrain your impatience for a few moments," he insisted. "This is a private conference. Your business with the Baron Maderstrom can be adjusted later."

"It is my duty," Griffiths proclaimed impatiently, "to arrest that man as a spy. I have authority, granted me this morning in London."

"Quite so," Sir Henry observed, "but we are in the midst of a very interesting little discussion which I intend to conclude. Your turn will come later, Captain Griffiths."

"I can countenance no discussion with such men as that," Griffiths declared scornfully. "I am here in the execution of my duty, and I resent any interference with it."

"No one wishes to interfere with you," Sir Henry assured him, "but until I say the word you will obey my orders."

"So far as I am concerned," Lessingham intervened, "I wish it to be understood that I offer no defence."

"You have no defence," Sir Henry reminded him suavely. "I gather that not only had you the effrontery to steal a chart from my pocket in the midst of a life struggle upon the trawler, but you have capped this exploit with a deliberate attempt to abduct my wife."

Griffiths seemed for a moment almost beside himself. His eyes glowed. His long fingers twitched. He kept edging a little nearer to Lessingham.

"Both charges," the latter confessed, looking Sir Henry in the eyes, "are true."

Then Philippa found herself. She saw the sudden flash in her husband's eyes, the grim fury in Griffiths' face. She stepped once more forward.

"Henry," she insisted, "you must listen to what I have to say."

"We have had enough words," Griffiths interposed savagely.

Sir Henry ignored the interruption.

"I am listening, Philippa," he said calmly.

"It was my intention an hour ago to leave this place with Mr. Lessingham to-night," she told him deliberately.

"The devil it was!" Sir Henry muttered.

"As for the reason, you know it," she continued, her tone full of courage. "I am willing to throw myself at your feet now, but all the same I was hardly treated. I was made the scapegoat of your stupid promise. You kept me in ignorance of things a wife should know. You even encouraged me to believe you a coward, when a single word from you would have changed everything. Therefore, I say that it is you who are responsible for what I nearly did, and what I should have done but for him—listen, Henry—but for him!"

"But for him," her husband repeated curiously.

"It was Mr. Lessingham," she declared, "who opened my eyes concerning you. It was he who refused to let me yield to that impulse of anger. Look at my coat there. My bag is on that table. I was ready to leave with him to-night. Before we went, he insisted on telling me everything about you. He could have escaped, and I was willing to go with him. Instead, he spent those precious minutes telling me the truth about you. That was the end."

"Lady Cranston omits to add," Lessingham put in, "that before I did so she told me frankly that her feelings for me were of warm friendliness—that her love was given to her husband, and her husband only."

"How long is this to go on?" Griffiths asked harshly. "I have the authority here and the power to take that man. These domestic explanations have nothing to do with the case."

"Excuse me," Sir Henry retorted, with quiet emphasis, "they have a great deal to do with it."

"I am Commandant of this place—" Griffiths commenced.

"And I possess an authority here which you had better not dispute," Sir Henry reminded him sternly.

There was a moment's tense silence. Griffiths set his teeth hard, but his hand wandered towards the back of his belt.

"I am now," Sir Henry continued, "going to announce to you a piece of news, over which we shall all be gloating when to-morrow morning's newspapers are issued, but which is not as yet generally known. During last night, a considerable squadron of German cruisers managed to cross the North Sea and found their way to a certain port of considerable importance to us."

Lessingham started, His face was drawn as though with pain. He had the air of one who shrinks from the news he is about to hear.

"Incidentally," Sir Henry continued, "three-quarters of the squadron also found their way to the bottom of the sea, and the other quarter met our own squadron, lying in wait for their retreat, and will not return."

Lessingham swayed for a moment upon his feet. One could almost fancy that Sir Henry's tone was tinged with pity as he turned towards him.

"The chart of the mine field of which you possessed yourself," he said, "which it was the object of your visit here to secure, was a chart specially prepared for you. You see, our own Secret Service is not altogether asleep. Those very safe and inviting-looking channels for British and Allied traffic—I marked them very clearly, didn't I?—were where I'd laid my mines. The channels which your cruisers so carefully avoided were the only safe avenues. So you see why it is, Maderstrom, that I have no grudge against you."

Lessingham's face for a moment was the face of a stricken man. There was a look of dull horror in his eyes.

"Is this the truth?" he gasped.

"It is the truth," Sir Henry assured him gravely.

"Does this conclude the explanations?" Captain Griffiths demanded impatiently. "Your news is magnificent, Sir Henry. As regards this felon—"

Sir Henry held up his hand.

"Maderstrom's fate," he said, "is mine to deal with and not yours, Captain Griffiths."

Philippa was the first to grasp the intentions of the man who was standing only a few feet from her. She threw herself upon his arm and dragged down the revolver which he had raised. Sir Henry, with a shout of fury, was upon them at once. He took Griffiths by the throat and threw him upon the sofa. The revolver clattered harmlessly on to the carpet.

"His Majesty's Service has no use for madmen," he thundered. "You know that I possess superior authority here."

"That man shall not escape!" Griffiths shouted.

He struggled for his whistle. Sir Henry snatched it from him and picked up the revolver from the carpet.

"Look here, Griffiths," he remonstrated severely, "one single move in opposition to my wishes will cost you your career. Let there be no misunderstanding about it. That man will not be arrested by you to-night."

Griffiths staggered to his feet. He was half cowed, half furious.

"You take the responsibility for this, Sir Henry?" he demanded thickly. "The man is a proved traitor. If you assist him to escape, you are subject to penalties—"

Sir Henry threw open the door.

"Captain Griffiths," he interrupted, "I am not ignorant of my position in this matter. Believe me, your last chance of retaining your position here is to remember that you have had specific orders to yield to my authority in all matters. Kindly leave this room and take your soldiers back to their quarters."

Griffiths hesitated for a single moment. He had the appearance of a man half demented by a passion which could find no outlet. Then he left the room, without salute, without a glance to the right or to the left. Out in the hall, a moment later, they heard a harsh voice of command. The hall door was opened and closed behind the sound of retreating footsteps.

"Sir Henry," Lessingham reminded him, "I have not asked for your intervention."

"My dear fellow, you wouldn't," was the prompt reply. "As for the little trouble that has happened in the North Sea, don't take it too much to heart, it was entirely the fault of the people who sent you here."

"The fault of the people who sent me here," Lessingham repeated. "I scarcely understand."

"It's simple enough," Sir Henry continued. "You see, you are about as fit to be a spy as Philippa, my wife here, is to be a detective. You possess the one insuperable obstacle of having the instincts of a gentleman.—Come, come," he went on, "we have nothing more to say to one another. Open that window and take the narrow path down to the beach. Jimmy Dumble is waiting for you at the gate. He will row you out to a Dutch trawler which is lying even now off the point."

"You mean me to get away?" Lessingham exclaimed, bewildered.

"Believe me, it will cost nothing," Sir Henry assured him. "I was not bluffing when I told Captain Griffiths that I had supreme authority here. He knows perfectly well that I am within my rights in aiding your escape."

Philippa moved swiftly to where Lessingham was standing. She gave him her hands.

"Dear friend," she begged, "so wonderful a friend as you have been, don't refuse this last thing."

"Be a sensible fellow, Maderstrom," Sir Henry said. "Remember that you can't do yourself or your adopted country a ha'porth of good by playing the Quixote."

"Besides," Philippa continued, holding his hands tightly, "it is, after all, only an exchange. You have saved Henry's life, set Richard free, and brought us happiness. Why should you hesitate to accept your own liberty?"

Sir Henry threw open the window and looked towards a green light out at sea.

"There's your trawler," he pointed out, "and remember the tide will turn in half an hour. I don't wish to hurry you."

Lessingham raised Philippa's fingers to his lips.

"I shall think of you both always," he said simply. "You are very wonderful people."

He turned towards the window. Sir Henry took up the Homburg hat from the table by his side.

"Better take your hat," he suggested.

Lessingham paused, accepted it, and looked steadfastly at the donor.

"You knew from the first?" he asked.

"From the very first," Sir Henry assured him. "Don't look so confounded," he went on consolingly. "Remember that espionage is the only profession in which it is an honour to fail."

Philippa came a little shyly into her husband's arms, as he turned back into the room. The tenderness in his own face, however, and a little catch in his voice, broke down at once the wall of reserve which had grown up between them.

"My dear little woman!" he murmured. "My little sweetheart! You don't know how I've ached to explain everything to you—including the Russian ladies."

"Explain them at once, sir!" Philippa insisted, pretending to draw her face away for a moment.

"They were the wife and sister-in-law of the Russian Admiral, Draskieff, who was sent over to report upon our method of mine laying," he told her.

"You and I have to go up to a little dinner they are giving to-morrow or the next day."

"Oh, dear, what an idiot I was!" Philippa exclaimed ruefully. "I imagined—all sorts of things. But, Henry dear," she went on, "do you know that we have a great surprise for you—here in the house?"

"No surprise, dear," he assured her, shaking his head. "I knew the very hour that Richard left Wittenberg. And here he is, by Jove!"

Richard and Helen entered together. Philippa could not even wait for the conclusion of the hearty but exceedingly British greeting which passed between the two men.

"Listen to me, both of you!" she cried incoherently. "Helen, you especially! You never heard anything so wonderful in your life! They weren't fishing excursions at all. There weren't any whiting. Henry was laying mines all the time, and he's blown up half the German fleet! It's all in the Times this morning. He's got a D.S.O.—Henry has—and he's a Rear-Admiral! Oh, Helen, I want to cry!"

The two women wandered into a far corner of the room. Richard wrung his brother-in-law's hand.

"Philippa isn't exactly coherent," he remarked, "but it sounds all right."

"You see," Sir Henry explained, "I've been mine laying ever since the war started. I always had ideas of my own about mine fields, as you may remember. I started with Scotland, and then they moved me down here. The Admiralty thought they'd be mighty clever, and they insisted upon my keeping my job secret. It led to a little trouble with Philippa, but I think we are through with all that.—I suppose you know that those two young women have been engaged in a regular conspiracy, Dick?"

"I know a little," Richard replied gravely, "and I'm sure you will believe that I wouldn't have countenanced it for a moment if I'd had any idea what they were up to."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Sir Henry agreed. "Anyway, it led to no harm."

"Maderstrom, then," Richard asked, with a sudden more complete apprehension of the affair, "was over here to spy upon you?"

"That's the ticket," Sir Henry assented.

Richard frowned.

"And he bribed Philippa and Helen with my liberty!"

"Don't you worry about that," his brother-in-law begged. "They must have known by instinct that a chap like Maderstrom couldn't do any harm."

"Where is he now?" Richard asked eagerly. "Helen insisted upon keeping me out of the way but we've heard all sorts of rumours. The Commandant has been up here after him, hasn't he?"

"Yes, and I sent him away with a flea in his ear! I don't like the fellow."

"And Maderstrom?"

"The pseudo-Mr. Lessingham, eh?" Sir Henry observed. "Well, to tell you the truth, Dick, if there is one person I am a little sorry for in the history of the last few weeks, it's Maderstrom."

"You, too?" Richard exclaimed. "Why, every one seems crazy about the fellow."

Sir Henry nodded.

"I remember him in your college days, Dick. He was a gentleman and a good sort, only unfortunately his mother was a German. He did his bit of soldiering with the Prussian Guards at the beginning of the war, got a knock and volunteered for the Secret Service. They sent him over here. The fellow must have no end of pluck, for, as I dare say you know, they let him down from the observation car of a Zeppelin. He finds his way here all right, makes his silly little bargain with our dear but gullible womenkind, and sets himself to watch—to watch me, mind. The whole affair is too ridiculously transparent. For a time he can't bring himself even to touch my papers here, although, as it happens, they wouldn't have done him the least bit of good. It was only the stress and excitement of the shipwreck last week that he ventured to steal the chart which I had so carefully prepared for him. I really think, if he hadn't done that, I should have had to slip it into his pocket or absolutely force it upon him somehow. He sends it off like a lamb and behold the result! We've crippled the German Navy for the rest of the war."

THE END