The Zeppelin's Passenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

that it is your intention to ring the bell.”

      “Of course it is,” she admitted. “Don't dare to prevent me.”

      “Madam, I do not wish to prevent you,” he assured her. “A few moments' delay—that is all I plead for.”

      “Will you explain at once, sir,” Philippa demanded, “what you mean by forcing your way into my house in this extraordinary fashion, and by locking that door?”

      “I am most anxious to do so,” was the prompt reply. “I am correct, of course, in my first surmise that you are Lady Cranston—and you Miss Fairclough?” he added, bowing ceremoniously to both of them. “A very great pleasure! I recognised you both quite easily, you see, from your descriptions.”

      “From our descriptions?” Philippa repeated.

      The newcomer bowed.

      “The descriptions, glowing, indeed, but by no means exaggerated, of your brother Richard, Lady Cranston, and your fiancé, Miss Fairclough.”

      “Richard?” Philippa almost shrieked.

      “You have seen Dick?” Helen gasped.

      The intruder dived in his pockets and produced two sealed envelopes. He handed one each simultaneously to Helen and to Philippa.

      “My letters of introduction,” he explained, with a little sigh of relief. “I trust that during their perusal you will invite me to have some tea. I am almost starving.”

      The two women hastened towards the lamp.

      “One moment, I beg,” their visitor interposed. “I have established, I trust, my credentials. May I remind you that I was compelled to ensure the safety of these few minutes' conversation with you, by locking that door. Are you likely to be disturbed?”

      “No, no! No chance at all,” Philippa assured him.

      “If we are, we'll explain,” Helen promised.

      “In that case,” the intruder begged, “perhaps you will excuse me.”

      He moved towards the door and softly turned the key, then he drew the curtains carefully across the French windows. Afterwards he made his way towards the tea-table. A little throbbing cry had broken from Helen's lips.

      “Philippa,” she exclaimed, “it's from Dick! It's Dick's handwriting!”

      Philippa's reply was incoherent. She was tearing open her own envelope. With a well-satisfied smile, the bearer of these communications seized a sandwich in one hand and poured himself out some tea with the other. He ate and drank with the restraint of good-breeding, but with a voracity which gave point to his plea of starvation. A few yards away, the breathless silence between the two women had given place to an almost hysterical series of disjointed exclamations.

      “It's from Dick!” Helen repeated. “It's his own dear handwriting. How shaky it is! He's alive and well, Philippa, and he's found a friend.”

      “I know—I know,” Philippa murmured tremulously. “Our parcels have been discovered, and he got them all at once. Just fancy, Helen, he's really not so ill, after all!”

      They drew a little closer together.

      “You read yours out first,” Helen proposed, “and then I'll read mine.”

      Philippa nodded. Her voice here and there was a little uncertain.

      MY DEAREST SISTER,

       I have heard nothing from you or Helen for so long that I was

       really getting desperate. I have had a very rough time here,

       but by the grace of Providence I stumbled up against an old

       friend the other day, Bertram Maderstrom, whom you must have

       heard me speak of in my college days. It isn't too much to say

       that he has saved my life. He has unearthed your parcels, found

       me decent quarters, and I am getting double rations. He has

       promised, too, to get this letter through to you.

       You needn't worry about me now, dear. I am feeling twice the

       man I was a month ago, and I shall stick it out now quite easily.

       Write me as often as ever you can. Your letters and Helen's make

       all the difference.

       My love to you and to Henry.

       Your affectionate brother, RICHARD.

       P.S. Is Henry an Admiral yet? I suppose he was in the Jutland

       scrap, which they all tell us here was a great German victory. I

       hope he came out all right.

      Philippa read the postscript with a little shiver. Then she set her teeth as though determined to ignore it.

      “Isn't it wonderful!” she exclaimed, turning towards Helen with glowing eyes. “Now yours, dear?”

      Helen's voice trembled as she read. Her eyes, too, at times were misty:

      DEAREST,

       I am writing to you so differently because I feel that you will

       really get this letter. I have bad an astonishing stroke of luck,

       as you will gather from Philippa's note. You can't imagine the

       difference. A month ago I really thought I should have to chuck

       it in. Now I am putting on flesh every day and beginning to feel

       myself again. I owe my life to a pal with whom I was at college,

       and whom you and I, dearest, will have to remember all our lives.

       I think of you always, and my thoughts are like the flowers of

       which we see nothing in these hideous huts. My greatest joy is

       in dreaming of the day when we shall meet again.

       Write to me often, sweetheart. Your letters and my thoughts of

       you are the one joy of my life.

       Always your lover,

       DICK.

      There were a few moments of significant silence. The girls were leaning together, their arms around one another's necks, their heads almost touching. Behind them, their visitor continued to eat and drink. He rose at last, however, reluctantly to his feet, and coughed. They started, suddenly remembering his presence. Philippa turned impulsively towards him with outstretched hands.

      “I can't tell you how thankful we are to you,” she declared.

      “Both of us,” Helen echoed.

      He touched with his fingers a box of cigarettes which stood upon the tea-table.

      “You permit?” he asked.

      “Of course,” Philippa assented eagerly. “You will find some matches on the tray there. Do please help yourself. I am afraid that I must have seemed very discourteous, but this has all been so amazing. Won't you have some fresh tea and some toast, or wouldn't you like some more sandwiches?”

      “Nothing more at present, thank you,” he replied. “If you do not mind, I would rather continue our conversation.”

      “These letters are wonderful,” Philippa told him gratefully. “You know from whom they come, of course. Dick is my twin brother, and until the war we had scarcely ever been parted. Miss Fairclough here is engaged to be married to him. It is quite two months since we had a line, and I myself have been in London for the last three days, three very weary days, making enquiries everywhere.”

      “I am very happy,” he said, “to have brought you such good news.”

      Once more the normal aspect