The Zeppelin's Passenger
afternoon, and I found a German hat. No one else got a thing, and, would
you believe it, those children over there tried to take it away from
me.”
Her stepmother smiled faintly.
“I expect you are keeping the hat, dear,” she observed.
“I should say so!” Nora assented.
Philippa held out her hand to the two young men who had been waiting to
take their leave.
“You must come and dine one night this week, both of you,” she said. “My
husband will be home by the later train this evening, and I'm sure he
will be glad to have you.”
“Very kind of you, Lady Cranston, we shall be delighted,” Harrison
declared.
“Rather!” his companion echoed.
Nora led them away, and Helen, with a word of excuse, followed them.
Griffiths, who had also risen to his feet, came a little nearer to
Philippa's chair.
“And you, too, of course, Captain Griffiths,” she said, smiling
pleasantly up at him. “Must you hurry away?”
“I will stay, if I may, until Miss Fairclough returns,” he answered,
resuming his seat.
“Do!” Philippa begged him. “I have had such a miserable time in town.
You can't think how restful it is to be back here.”
“I am afraid,” he observed, “that your journey has not been successful.”
Philippa shook her head.
“It has been completely unsuccessful,” she sighed. “I have not been able
to hear a word about my brother. I am so sorry for poor Helen, too. They
were only engaged, you know, a few days before he left for the front
this last time.”
Captain Griffiths nodded sympathetically.
“I never met Major Felstead,” he remarked, “but every one who has
seems to like him very much. He was doing so well, too, up to that last
unfortunate affair, wasn't he?”
“Dick is a dear,” Philippa declared. “I never knew any one with so many
friends. He would have been commanding his battalion now, if only he
were free. His colonel wrote and told me so himself.”
“I wish there were something I could do,” Griffiths murmured, a little
awkwardly. “It hurts me, Lady Cranston, to see you so upset.”
She looked at him for a moment in faint surprise.
“Nobody can do anything,” she bemoaned. “That is the unfortunate part of
it all.”
He rose to his feet and was immediately conscious, as he always was when
he stood up, that there was a foot or two of his figure which he had no
idea what to do with.
“You wouldn't feel like a ride to-morrow morning, Lady Cranston?” he
asked, with a wistfulness which seemed somehow stifled in his rather
unpleasant voice. She shook her head.
“Perhaps one morning later,” she replied, a little vaguely. “I haven't
any heart for anything just now.”
He took a sombre but agitated leave of his hostess, and went out into
the twilight, cursing his lack of ease, remembering the things which
he had meant to say, and hating himself for having forgotten them.
Philippa, to whom his departure had been, as it always was, a relief,
was already leaning forward in her chair with her arm around Helen's
neck.
“I thought that extraordinary man would never go,” she exclaimed, “and
I was longing to send for you, Helen. London has been such a dreary
chapter of disappointments.”
“What a sickening time you must have had, dear!”
“It was horrid,” Philippa assented sadly, “but you know Henry is no use
at all, and I should have felt miserable unless I had gone. I have been
to every friend at the War Office, and every friend who has friends
there. I have made every sort of enquiry, and I know just as much now
as I did when I left here--that Richard was a prisoner at Wittenberg
the last time they heard, and that they have received no notification
whatever concerning him for the last two months.”
Helen glanced at the calendar.
“It is just two months to-day,” she said mournfully, “since we heard.”
“And then,” Philippa sighed, “he hadn't received a single one of our
parcels.”
Helen rose suddenly to her feet. She was a tall, fair girl of the best
Saxon type, slim but not in the least angular, with every promise,
indeed, of a fuller and more gracious development in the years to come.
She was barely twenty-two years old, and, as is common with girls of her
complexion, seemed younger. Her bright, intelligent face was, above
all, good-humoured. Just at that moment, however, there was a flush of
passionate anger in her cheeks.
“It makes me feel almost beside myself,” she exclaimed, “this hideous
incapacity for doing anything! Here we are living in luxury, without a
single privation, whilst Dick, the dearest thing on earth to both of us,
is being starved and goaded to death in a foul German prison!”
“We mustn't believe that it's quite so bad as that, dear,” Philippa
remonstrated. “What is it, Mills?”
The elderly man-servant who had entered with a tray in his band, bowed
as he arranged it upon a side table.
“I have taken the liberty of bringing in a little fresh tea, your
ladyship,” he announced, “and some hot buttered toast. Cook has sent
some of the sandwiches, too, which your ladyship generally fancies.”
“It is very kind of you, Mills,” Philippa said, with rather a wan little
smile. “I had some tea at South Lynn, but it was very bad. You might
take my coat, please.”
She stood up, and the heavy fur coat slipped easily away from her slim,
elegant little body.
“Shall I light up, your ladyship?” Mills enquired.
“You might light a lamp,” Philippa directed, “but don't draw the blinds
until lighting-up time. After the noise of London,” she went on,
turning to Helen, “I always think that the faint sound of the sea is so
restful.”
The man moved noiselessly about the room and returned once more to his
mistress.
“We should be glad to hear, your ladyship,” he said, “if there is any
news of Major Felstead?” Philippa shook her head.
“None at all, I am sorry to say, Mills! Still, we must hope for the
best. I dare say that some of these camps are not so bad as we imagine.”
“We must hope not, your ladyship,” was the somewhat dismal reply. “Shall
I fasten the windows?”
“You can leave them until you draw the blinds, Mills,” Philippa
directed. “I am not at home, if any one should call. See that we are
undisturbed for a little time.”
“Very good, your ladyship.”
The door was closed, and the two women were once more alone. Philippa
held out her arms.
“Helen, darling, come and be nice to me,” she begged. “Let us both
pretend that no news is good news. Oh, I know what you are suffering,
but remember that even if Dick is your lover, he is my dear, only
brother--my twin brother, too. We have been so much to each other all
our lives. He'll stick it out, dear, if any human being can. We shall
have him back with us some day.”
“But he is hungry,” Helen sobbed. “I can't bear to think of his being
hungry. Every time I sit down to eat, it almost chokes me.”
“I suppose he has forgotten what a whisky and soda is like,” Philippa
murmured, with a little catch in her own throat.
“He always used to love one about this time,” Helen faltered, glancing
at the clock.
“And cigarettes!” Philippa exclaimed. “I wonder whether they give him
anything to smoke.”
“Nasty German tobacco, if they do,” Helen rejoined indignantly. “And
to think that I have sent him at least six hundred of his favourite
Egyptians!”
She fell once more on her knees by her friend's side. Their arms were
intertwined, their cheeks touching. One of those strange, feminine
silences of acute sympathy seemed to hold them for a while under its
thrall. Then, almost at the same moment, a queer awakening came for both
of them. Helen's arm was stiffened. Philippa turned her head, but her
eyes were filled with incredulous fear. A little current of cool air was
blowing through the room. The French windows stood half open, and with
his back to them, a man who had apparently entered the room from the
gardens and passed noiselessly across the soft carpet, was standing
by the door, listening. They heard him turn the key. Then, in a
businesslike manner, he returned to the windows and closed them, the
eyes of the two women following him all the time. Satisfied, apparently,
with his precautions, he turned towards them just as an expression of
indignant enquiry broke from Philippa's lips. Helen sprang to her feet,
and Philippa gripped the sides of her chair. The newcomer advanced a few
steps nearer to them.
CHAPTER III
It seemed to the two women, brief though the period of actual silence
was, that in those few seconds they jointly conceived definite and
lasting impressions of the man who was to become, during the next few
weeks, an object of the deepest concern to both of them. The intruder
was slightly built, of little more than medium height, of dark
complexion, with an almost imperceptible moustache of military pattern,
black hair dishevelled with the wind, and eyes of almost peculiar
brightness. He carried himself with an assurance which was somewhat
remarkable considering the condition of his torn and mud stained
clothes, the very quality of which was almost undistinguishable. They
both, curiously enough, formed the same instinctive conviction that,
notwithstanding his tramplike appearance and his burglarious entrance,
this was not a person to be greatly feared.
The stranger brushed aside Philippa's incoherent exclamation and opened
the conversation with some ceremony.
“Ladies,” he began, with a low bow, “in the first place let me offer
my most profound apologies for this unusual form of entrance to your
house.”
Philippa rose from her easy-chair and confronted him. The firelight
played upon her red-gold hair, and surprise had driven the weariness
from her face. Against the black oak of the chimneypiece she had almost
the appearance of a framed cameo. Her voice was quite steady, although
its inflection betrayed some indignation.
“Will you kindly explain who you are and what you mean by this
extraordinary behaviour?” she demanded.
“It is my earnest intention to do so without delay,” he assured her, his
eyes apparently rivetted upon Philippa. “Kindly pardon me.”
He held out his arm to stop Helen, who, with her eye upon the bell, had
made a stealthy attempt to slip past him. Her eyes flashed as she felt
his fingers upon her arm.
“How dare you attempt to stop me!” she exclaimed.
“My dear Miss Fairclough,” he remonstrated, “in the interests of all
of us, it is better that we should have a few moments of undisturbed
conversation. I am taking it for granted that I have the pleasure of
addressing Miss Fairclough?”
There was something about the man's easy confidence which was, in its
way, impressive yet irritating. Helen appeared bereft of words and
retreated to her place almost mildly. Philippa's very delicate eyebrows
were drawn together in a slight frown.
“You are acquainted with our names, then?”
“Perfectly,” was the suave reply. “You, I presume, are Lady Cranston? I
may be permitted to add,” he went on, looking at her steadfastly, “that
the description from which I recognise you does you less than justice.”
“I find that remark, under the circumstances, impertinent,” Philippa
told him coldly.
He shrugged his shoulders. There was a slight smile upon his lips and
his eyes twinkled.
“Alas!” he murmured, “for the moment I forgot the somewhat unusual
circumstances of our meeting. Permit me to offer you what I trust you
will accept as the equivalent of a letter of introduction.”
“A letter of introduction,” Philippa repeated, glancing at his
disordered clothes, “and you come in through the window!”
“Believe me,” the intruder assured her, “it was the only way.”
“Perhaps you will tell me, then,” Philippa demanded, her anger gradually
giving way to bewilderment, “what is wrong with my front door?”
“For all I know, dear lady,” the newcomer confessed, “yours may be