“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.”