The Zeppelin's Passenger
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 under his eyes which seemed to speak of sleepless
nights, and a beard of several days' growth was upon his chin. He drank
the cocktail which Mills presently brought him, at a gulp, and watched
with satisfaction while the mixer was vigorously shaken and a second one
poured out.
“We've had a rough time, Mills,” he observed, as he set down the glass.
“Until this morning it scarcely left off blowing.”
“I'm sorry to hear it, sir,” was the respectful reply. “If I may be
allowed to say so, sir, you're looking tired.”
“I am tired,” Sir Henry admitted. “I think, if I tried, I could go to
sleep now for twenty-four hours.”
“You will pardon my reminding you, so far as regards your letters, that
there is no post out tonight, sir,” Mills proceeded. “I have prepared a
warm bath and laid out your clothes for a change.”
“Capital!” Sir Henry exclaimed. “It isn't a letter that's bothering me,
though, Mills. There are just a few geographical notes I want to make.
You know, I'm trying to improve the fishermen's chart of the coast round
here. That fellow Groocock--Jimmy Dumble's uncle--very nearly lost his
motor boat last week through trusting to the old one.”
“Just so, sir,” Mills replied deferentially, placing the empty glass
upon his tray. “If you'll excuse me, sir, I must get back to the dining
room.”
“Quite right,” his master assented. “They won't be out just yet, will
they?”
“Her ladyship will probably be rising in about ten minutes, sir--not
before that.”
Sir Henry nodded a little impatiently. Directly the door was closed
he rose to his feet, stood for a moment listening by the side of his
fishing cabinet, then opened the glass front and touched the spring.
With the aid of a little electric torch which he took from his pocket,
he studied particularly a certain portion of the giant chart, made some
measurements with a pencil, some notes in the margin, and closed it
up again with an air of satisfaction. Then he resumed his seat, drew
a folded slip of paper from his breast pocket, a chart from another,