The Zeppelin's Passenger
“I'll tell him,” Helen promised. “I'll smuggle him out of the back way,
if you like.”
Philippa laughed a little drearily.
“A nice start that would be, if any one ever traced his arrival!” she
observed. “No, we must try and get him away before Henry comes, but, if
the worst comes to the worst, we'll have him in and introduce him. Henry
isn't likely to notice anything,” she added, a little bitterly.
Helen disappeared with the clothes and returned almost immediately,
Philippa was sitting in her old position by the fire.
“You're not worrying about this, dear, are you?” the former asked
anxiously.
“I don't know,” Philippa replied, without turning her head. “I don't
know what may come of it, Helen. I have a queer sort of feeling about
that man.”
Helen sighed. “I suppose,” she confessed, “I am the narrowest person on
earth. I can think of one thing, and one thing only. If Mr. Lessingham
keeps his word, Dick will be here perhaps in a month, perhaps six
weeks--certainly soon!”
“He will keep his word,” Philippa said quietly. “He is that sort of
man.”
The door on the other side of the room was softly opened. Lessingham's
head appeared.
“Could I have a necktie?” he asked diffidently. Philippa stretched out
her hand and took one from the basket by her side.
“Better give him this,” she said, handing it over to Helen. “It is one
of Henry's which I was mending.--Stop!”
She put up her finger. They all listened.
“The car!” Philippa exclaimed, rising hastily to her feet. “That is
Henry! Go out with Mr. Lessingham, Helen,” she continued, “and wait
until he is ready. Don't forget that he is an ordinary caller, and bring
him in presently.”
Helen nodded understandingly and hurried out.
Philippa moved a few steps towards the other door. In a moment it was
thrown open. Nora appeared, with her arm through her father's.
“I went to meet him, Mummy,” she explained. “No uniform--isn't it a
shame!”
Sir Henry patted her cheek and turned to greet his wife. There was
a shadow upon his bronzed, handsome face as he watched her rather
hesitating approach.
“Sorry I couldn't catch your train, Phil,” he told her. “I had to make a
call in the city so I came down from Liverpool Street. Any luck?”
She held his hands, resisting for the moment his proffered embrace.
“Henry,” she said earnestly, “do you know I am so much more anxious to
hear your news.”
“Mine will keep,” he replied. “What about Richard?”
She shook her head.
“I spent the whole of my time making enquiries,” she sighed, “and every
one was fruitless. I failed to get the least satisfaction from any one
at the War Office. They know nothing, have heard nothing.”
“I'm ever so sorry to hear it,” Sir Henry declared sympathetically. “You
mustn't worry too much, though, dear. Where's Helen?”
“She is in the gun room with a caller.”
“With a caller?” Nora exclaimed. “Is it any one from the Depot? I must
go and see.”
“You needn't trouble,” her stepmother replied. “Here they are, coming
in.”
The door on the opposite side of the room was suddenly opened, and Hamar
Lessingham and Helen entered together. Lessingham was entirely at his
ease,--their conversation, indeed, seemed almost engrossing. He came at
once across the room on realising Sir Henry's presence.
“This is Mr. Hamar Lessingham--my husband,” Philippa said. “Mr.
Lessingham was at college with Dick, Henry, so of course Helen and he
have been indulging in all sorts of reminiscences.”
The two men shook hands.
“I found time also to examine your Leech prints,” Lessingham remarked.
“You have some very admirable examples.”
“Quite a hobby of mine in my younger days,” Sir Henry admitted. “One
or two of them are very good, I believe. Are you staying in these parts
long, Mr. Lessingham?”
“Perhaps for a week or two,” was the somewhat indifferent reply. “I am
told that this is the most wonderful air in the world, so I have come
down here to pull up again after a slight illness.”
“A dreary spot just now,” Sir Henry observed, “but the air's all right.
Are you a sea-fisherman, by any chance, Mr. Lessingham?”
“I have done a little of it,” the visitor confessed. Sir Henry's face
lit up. He drew from his pocket a small, brown paper parcel.
“I don't mind telling you,” he confided as he cut the string, “that I
don't think there's another sport like it in the world. I have tried
most of them, too. When I was a boy I was all for shooting, perhaps
because I could never get enough. Then I had a season or two at Melton,
though I was never much of a horseman. But for real, unadulterated
excitement, for sport that licks everything else into a cocked hat, give
me a strong sea rod, a couple of traces, just enough sea to keep on the
bottom all the time, and the codling biting. Look here, did you ever see
a mackerel spinner like that?” he added, drawing one out of the parcel
which he had untied. “Look at it, all of you.”
Lessingham took it gingerly in his fingers. Philippa, a little
ostentatiously, turned her back upon the two men and took up a
newspaper.
“Lady Cranston does not sympathize with my interest in any sort of sport
just now,” Sir Henry explained good-humouredly. “All the same I argue
that one must keep one's mind occupied somehow or other.”
“Quite right, Dad!” Nora agreed. “We must carry on, as the Colonel says.
All the same, I did hope you'd come down in a new naval uniform, with
lots of gold braid on your sleeve. I think they might have made you an
admiral, Daddy, you'd look so nice on the bridge.”
“I am afraid,” her father replied, with his eyes glued upon the spinner
which Lessingham was holding, “that that is a consideration which didn't
seem to weigh with them much. Look at the glitter of it,” he went on,
taking up another of the spinners. “You see, it's got a double swivel,
and they guarantee six hundred revolutions a minute.”
“I must plead ignorance,” Lessingham regretted, “of everything connected
with mackerel spinning.”
“It's fine sport for a change,” Sir Henry declared. “The only thing is
that if you strike a shoal one gets tired of hauling the beggars in.
By-the-by, has Jimmy been up for me, Philippa? Have you heard whether
there are any mackerel in?”
Philippa raised her eyebrows.
“Mackerel!” she repeated sarcastically.
“Have you any objection to the fish, dear?” Sir Henry enquired blandly.
Philippa made no reply. Her husband frowned and turned towards
Lessingham.
“You see,” he complained a little irritably, “my wife doesn't approve of
my taking an interest even in fishing while the war's on, but, hang it
all, what are you to do when you reach my age? Thinks I ought to be a
special constable, don't you, Philippa?”
“Need we discuss this before Mr. Lessingham?” she asked, without looking
up from her paper.
Lessingham promptly prepared to take his departure.
“See something more of you, I hope,” Sir Henry remarked hospitably, as
he conducted his guest to the door. “Where are you staying here?”
“At the hotel.”
“Which?”
“I did not understand that there was more than one,” Lessingham replied.
“I simply wrote to The Hotel, Dreymarsh.”
“There is only one hotel open, of course, Mr. Lessingham,” Philippa
observed, turning towards him. “Why do you ask such an absurd question,
Henry? The 'Grand' is full of soldiers. Come and see us whenever you
feel inclined, Mr. Lessingham.”
“I shall certainly take advantage of your permission, Lady Cranston,”
were the farewell words of this unusual visitor as he bowed himself out.
Sir Henry moved to the sideboard and helped himself to a whisky and
soda. Philippa laid down her newspaper and watched him as though waiting
patiently for his return. Helen and Nora had already obeyed the summons
of the dressing bell.
“Henry, I want to hear your news,” she insisted. He threw himself into
an easy-chair and turned over the contents of Philippa's workbasket.
“Where's that tie of mine you were mending?” he asked. “Is it finished
yet?”
“It is upstairs somewhere,” she replied. “No, I have not finished it.
Why do you ask? You have plenty, haven't you?”
“Drawers full,” he admitted cheerfully. “Half of them I can never wear,
though. I like that black and white fellow. Your friend Lessingham was
wearing one exactly like it.”
“It isn't exactly an uncommon pattern,” Philippa reminded him.
“Seems to have the family taste in clothes,” Sir Henry continued,
stroking his chin. “That grey tweed suit of his was exactly the same
pattern as the suit Richard was wearing, the last time I saw him in
mufti.”
“They probably go to the same tailor,” Philippa remarked equably.
Sir Henry abandoned the subject. He was once more engrossed in an
examination of the mackerel spinners.
“You didn't answer my question about Jimmy Dumble,” he ventured
presently.
Philippa turned and looked at him. Her eyes were usually very sweet and
soft and her mouth delightful. Just at that moment, however, there were
new and very firm lines in her face.
“Henry,” she said sternly, “you are purposely fencing with me. Mr.
Lessingham's taste in clothes, or Jimmy Dumble's comings and goings, are
not what I want to hear or talk about. You went to London, unwillingly
enough, to keep your promise to me. I want to know whether you have
succeeded in getting anything from the Admiralty?”
“Nothing but the cold shoulder, my dear,” he answered with a little
chuckle.
“Do you mean to say that they offered you nothing at all?” she
persisted. “You may have been out of the service too long for them to
start you with a modern ship, but surely they could have given you an
auxiliary cruiser, or a secondary command of some sort?”
“They didn't even offer me a washtub, dear,” he confessed. “My name's on
a list, they said--”
“Oh, that list!” Philippa interrupted angrily. “Henry, I really can't
bear it. Couldn't they find you anything on land?”
“My dear girl,” he replied a little testily, “what sort of a figure
should I cut in an office! No one can read my writing, and I couldn't
add up a column of figures to save my life. What is it?” he added, as
the door opened, and Mills made his appearance.
“Dumble is here to see you, sir.”
“Show him in at once,” his master directed with alacrity. “Come in,
Jimmy,” he went on, raising his voice. “I've got something to show you
here.”
Philippa's lips were drawn a little closer together. She swept past her
husband on her way to the door.
“I hope you will be so good,” she said, looking back, “as to spare me
half an hour of your valuable time this evening. This is a subject which
I must discuss with you further at once.”
“As urgent as all that, eh?” Sir Henry replied, stopping to light a
cigarette. “Righto! You can have the whole of my evening, dear, with the
greatest of pleasure.--Now then, Jimmy!”
CHAPTER VI
Jimmy Dumble possessed a very red face and an extraordinary capacity for
silence. He stood a yard or two inside the room, twirling his hat in
his hand. Sir Henry, after the closing of the door, did not for a moment
address his visitor. There was a subtle but unmistakable change in his
appearance as he stood with his hands in his pockets, and a frown on
his forehead, whistling softly to himself, his eyes fixed upon the door
through which his wife had vanished. He swung round at last towards the
telephone.
“Stand by for a moment, Jimmy, will you?” he directed.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Sir Henry took up the receiver. He dropped his voice a little, although
it was none the less distinct.
“Number one--police-station, please.--Hullo there! The inspector
about?--That you, Inspector?--Sir Henry Cranston speaking. Could you
just step round?--Good! Tell them to show you straight into the library.
You might just drop a hint to Mills about the lights, eh? Thank you.”