“I had enough to make me bad-tempered,” he declared.  “I had tracked down a German spy, step by step, until I had him there, waiting for arrest—­expecting it, even—­and then I got that wicked message.”

“What was that wicked message after all?” she enquired.

“That doesn’t matter,” he answered.  “It was from a quarter where they ought to know better, and it ordered me to make no arrest.  I have sent to the War Office to-day a full report, and I am praying that they may change their minds.”

Philippa sighed.

“If you hadn’t received that telegram last night,” she observed, “it seems to me that I should have been a widow to-day.”

He frowned, and struck his boot heavily with his riding whip.

“Yes, I heard of that,” he admitted.  “I dare say if he hadn’t gone, though, some one else would.”

“Would you have gone if you had been there?” she asked.

“If you had told me to,” he replied, looking at her steadfastly.

Philippa felt a little shiver.  There was something ominous in the intensity of his gaze and the meaning which he had contrived to impart to his tone.  She rose to her feet.

“Well,” she said, “don’t let me keep you here.  I am getting cold.”

He passed his arm through the bridle of his horse.  “I will walk with you, if I may,” he proposed.  She made no reply, and they set their faces homewards.

“I hear Lessingham has left the place,” he remarked, a little abruptly.

“Oh, I expect he’ll come back,” Philippa replied.

“How long is it, Lady Cranston, since you took to consorting with German spies?” he asked.

“Don’t be foolish—­or impertinent,” she enjoined.  “You are making a ridiculous mistake about Mr. Lessingham.”

He laughed unpleasantly.

“No need for us to fence,” he said.  “You and I know who he is.  What I do want to know, what I have been wondering all the way from the point there—­four miles of hard galloping and one question—­ why are you his friend?  What is he to you?”

“Really, Captain Griffiths,” she protested, looking up at him, “of what possible interest can that be to you?”

“Well, it is, anyhow,” he answered gruffly.  “Anything that concerns you is of interest to me.”

Philippa realised at that moment, perhaps for the first time, what it all meant.  She realised the significance of those apparently purposeless afternoon calls, when through sheer boredom she had had to send for Helen to help her out; the significance of those long silences, the melancholy eyes which seemed to follow her movements.  She felt an unaccountable desire to laugh, and then, at the first twitchings of her lips, she restrained herself.  She knew that tragedy was stalking by her side.

“I think, Captain Griffiths,” she said gravely, “that you are talking nonsense, and you are not a very good hand at it.  Won’t you please ride on?”