“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
Table of Contents
Mills’ words were plainly audible throughout the room. Philippa made eager signs to Lessingham, pointing to the French windows. Lessingham, however, shook his head.
“I prefer,” he said gently, “to finish my conversation with your husband.”’
There was another and more insistent summons from outside. This time it was Captain Griffiths’ raucous voice.
“Sir Henry Cranston,” he called out, “I am here with authority. I beg to be admitted.”
“Where is your escort?”
“In the hall.”
“If I let you come in,” Sir Henry continued, “will you come alone?”
“I should prefer it,” was the eager reply. “I wish to make this business as little unpleasant to—to everybody as possible.”
Sir Henry softly turned the key, opened the door, and admitted Griffiths. The man seemed to see no one else but Lessingham. He would have hastened at once tow
ards him, but Sir Henry laid his hand upon his arm.
“You must kindly restrain your impatience for a few moments,” he insisted. “This is a private conference. Your business with the Baron Maderstrom can be adjusted later.”
“It is my duty,” Griffiths proclaimed impatiently, “to arrest that man as a spy. I have authority, granted me this morning in London.”
“Quite so,” Sir Henry observed, “but we are in the midst of a very interesting little discussion which I intend to conclude. Your turn will come later, Captain Griffiths.”
“I can countenance no discussion with such men as that,” Griffiths declared scornfully. “I am here in the execution of my duty, and I resent any interference with it.”
“No one wishes to interfere with you,” Sir Henry assured him, “but until I say the word you will obey my orders.”
“So far as I am concerned,” Lessingham intervened, “I wish it to be understood that I offer no defence.”
“You have no defence,” Sir Henry reminded him suavely. “I gather that not only had you the effrontery to steal a chart from my pocket in the midst of a life struggle upon the trawler, but you have capped this exploit with a deliberate attempt to abduct my wife.”
Griffiths seemed for a moment almost beside himself. His eyes glowed. His long fingers twitched. He kept edging a little nearer to Lessingham.
“Both charges,” the latter confessed, looking Sir Henry in the eyes, “are true.”
Then Philippa found herself. She saw the sudden flash in her husband’s eyes, the grim fury in Griffiths’ face. She stepped once more forward.
“Henry,” she insisted, “you must listen to what I have to say.”
“We have had enough words,” Griffiths interposed savagely.
Sir Henry ignored the interruption.
“I am listening, Philippa,” he said calmly.
“It was my intention an hour ago to leave this place with Mr. Lessingham to-night,” she told him deliberately.
“The devil it was!” Sir Henry muttered.
“As for the reason, you know it,” she continued, her tone full of courage. “I am willing to throw myself at your feet now, but all the same I was hardly treated. I was made the scapegoat of your stupid promise. You kept me in ignorance of things a wife should know. You even encouraged me to believe you a coward, when a single word from you would have changed everything. Therefore, I say that it is you who are responsible for what I nearly did, and what I should have done but for him—listen, Henry—but for him!”
“But for him,” her husband repeated curiously.
“It was Mr. Lessingham,” she declared, “who opened my eyes concerning you. It was he who refused to let me yield to that impulse of anger. Look at my coat there. My bag is on that table. I was ready to leave with him to-night. Before we went, he insisted on telling me everything about you. He could have escaped, and I was willing to go with him. Instead, he spent those precious minutes telling me the truth about you. That was the end.”
“Lady Cranston omits to add,” Lessingham put in, “that before I did so she told me frankly that her feelings for me were of warm friendliness—that her love was given to her husband, and her husband only.”
“How long is this to go on?” Griffiths asked harshly. “I have the authority here and the power to take that man. These domestic explanations have nothing to do with the case.”
“Excuse me,” Sir Henry retorted, with quiet emphasis, “they have a great deal to do with it.”
“I am Commandant of this place—” Griffiths commenced.
“And I possess an authority here which you had better not dispute,” Sir Henry reminded him sternly.
There was a moment’s tense silence. Griffiths set his teeth hard, but his hand wandered towards the back of his belt.
“I am now,” Sir Henry continued, “going to announce to you a piece of news, over which we shall all be gloating when to-morrow morning’s newspapers are issued, but which is not as yet generally known. During last night, a considerable squadron of German cruisers managed to cross the North Sea and found their way to a certain port of considerable importance to us.”
Lessingham started, His face was drawn as though with pain. He had the air of one who shrinks from the news he is about to hear.
“Incidentally,” Sir Henry continued, “three-quarters of the squadron also found their way to the bottom of the sea, and the other quarter met our own squadron, lying in wait for their retreat, and will not return.”
Lessingham swayed for a moment upon his feet. One could almost fancy that Sir Henry’s tone was tinged with pity as he turned towards him.
“The chart of the mine field of which you possessed yourself,” he said, “which it was the object of your visit here to secure, was a chart specially prepared for you. You see, our own Secret Service is not altogether asleep. Those very safe and inviting-looking channels for British and Allied traffic—I marked them very clearly, didn’t I?—were where I’d laid my mines. The channels which your cruisers so carefully avoided were the only safe avenues. So you see why it is, Maderstrom, that I have no grudge against you.”
Lessingham’s face for a moment was the face of a stricken man. There was a look of dull horror in his eyes.
“Is this the truth?” he gasped.
“It is the truth,” Sir Henry assured him gravely.
“Does this conclude the explanations?” Captain Griffiths demanded impatiently. “Your news is magnificent, Sir Henry. As regards this felon—”
Sir Henry held up his hand.
“Maderstrom’s fate,” he said, “is mine to deal with and not yours, Captain Griffiths.”
Philippa was the first to grasp the intentions of the man who was standing only a few feet from her. She threw herself upon his arm and dragged down the revolver which he had raised. Sir Henry, with a shout of fury, was upon them at once. He took Griffiths by the throat and threw him upon the sofa. The revolver clattered harmlessly on to the carpet.
“His Majesty’s Service has no use for madmen,” he thundered. “You know that I possess superior authority here.”
“That man shall not escape!” Griffiths shouted.
He struggled for his whistle. Sir Henry snatched it from him and picked up the revolver from the carpet.
“Look here, Griffiths,” he remonstrated severely, “one single move in opposition to my wishes will cost you your career. Let there be no misunderstanding about it. That man will not be arrested by you to-night.”
Griffiths staggered to his feet. He was half cowed, half furious.
“You take the responsibility for this, Sir Henry?” he demanded thickly. “The man is a proved traitor. If you assist him to escape, you are subject to penalties—”
Sir Henry threw open the door.
“Captain Griffiths,” he interrupted, “I am not ignorant of my position in this matter. Believe me, your last chance of retaining your position here is to remember that you have had specific orders to yield to my authority in all matters. Kindly leave this room and take your soldiers back to their quarters.”
Griffiths hesitated for a single moment. He had the appearance of a man half demented by a passion which could find no outlet. Then he left the room, without salute, without a glance to the right or to the left. Out in the hall, a moment later, they heard a harsh voice of command. The hall door was opened and closed behind the sound of retreating footsteps.
“Sir Henry,” Lessingham reminded him, “I have not asked for your intervention.”
“My dear fellow, you wouldn’t,” was the prompt reply. “As for the little trouble that has happened in the North Sea, don’t take it too much to heart, it was entirely the fault of the people who sent you here.”
“The fault of the people who sent me here,” Lessingham repeated. “I scarcely understand.”
“It’s simple enough,” Sir Henry continued. “You see, you are about as fit to be a spy as Philippa, my wife here, is to be a detective. You possess the
one insuperable obstacle of having the instincts of a gentleman.—Come, come,” he went on, “we have nothing more to say to one another. Open that window and take the narrow path down to the beach. Jimmy Dumble is waiting for you at the gate. He will row you out to a Dutch trawler which is lying even now off the point.”
“You mean me to get away?” Lessingham exclaimed, bewildered.
“Believe me, it will cost nothing,” Sir Henry assured him. “I was not bluffing when I told Captain Griffiths that I had supreme authority here. He knows perfectly well that I am within my rights in aiding your escape.”
Philippa moved swiftly to where Lessingham was standing. She gave him her hands.
“Dear friend,” she begged, “so wonderful a friend as you have been, don’t refuse this last thing.”
“Be a sensible fellow, Maderstrom,” Sir Henry said. “Remember that you can’t do yourself or your adopted country a ha’porth of good by playing the Quixote.”
“Besides,” Philippa continued, holding his hands tightly, “it is, after all, only an exchange. You have saved Henry’s life, set Richard free, and brought us happiness. Why should you hesitate to accept your own liberty?”
Sir Henry threw open the window and looked towards a green light out at sea.
“There’s your trawler,” he pointed out, “and remember the tide will turn in half an hour. I don’t wish to hurry you.”
Lessingham raised Philippa’s fingers to his lips.
“I shall think of you both always,” he said simply. “You are very wonderful people.”
He turned towards the window. Sir Henry took up the Homburg hat from the table by his side.
“Better take your hat,” he suggested.
Lessingham paused, accepted it, and looked steadfastly at the donor.
“You knew from the first?” he asked.
“From the very first,” Sir Henry assured him. “Don’t look so confounded,” he went on consolingly. “Remember that espionage is the only profession in which it is an honour to fail.”
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