The Zeppelin's Passenger
“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