The Zeppelin's Passenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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

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      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 an excellent front door. I would ask you, however, to consider my appearance. I have been obliged to conclude the last few miles of my journey in somewhat ignominious fashion. My clothes—they were quite nice clothes, too, when I started,” he added, looking down at himself ruefully—“have suffered. And, as you perceive, I have lost my hat.”

      “Your hat?” Helen exclaimed, with a sudden glance at Nora's trophy.

      “Precisely! I might have posed before your butler, perhaps, as belonging to what you call the hatless brigade, but the mud upon my clothes, and these unfortunate rents in my garments, would have necessitated an explanation which I thought better avoided. I make myself quite clear, I trust?”

      “Clear?” Philippa murmured helplessly.

      “Clear?” Helen echoed, with a puzzled frown.

      “I mean, of course,” their visitor explained, “so far as regards my choosing this somewhat surreptitious form of entrance into your house.”

      Philippa shrugged her shoulders and made a determined move towards the bell. The intruder, however, barred her way. She looked up into his face and found it difficult to maintain her indignation. His expression, besides being distinctly pleasant, was full of a respectful admiration.