The Zeppelins Passenger | Page 7

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