Come,
produce the knife, Mr. Lessingham."
The knife was forthcoming, and presently they all turned their faces
homeward. Philippa arrested both her companions on the outskirts of
the wood, and pointed to the red-tiled little town, to the sombre,
storm-beaten grey church on the edge of the cliff, to the peaceful
fields, the stretch of gorse-sprinkled common, and the rolling
stretch of green turf on the crown of the cliffs. Beyond was the
foam-flecked blue sea, dotted all over with cargo steamers.
"Would one believe," she asked satirically, "that there should be
scope here in this forgotten little spot for the brains of a--Mr.
Lessingham!"
"Remember that I was sent," he protested. "The error, if error
there be, is not mine."
"And after all," Helen reminded them both, "think how easily one
may be misled by appearances. You couldn't imagine anything more
honest than the faces of the villagers and the fishermen one sees
about, yet do you know, Mr. Lessingham, that we were visited by
burglars last night?"
"Seriously?" he asked.
"Without a doubt. Of course, Mainsail Haul is an invitation to
thieves. They could get in anywhere. Last night they chose the
French windows and seem to have made themselves at home in the
library."
"I trust," Lessingham said, "that they did not take anything of value?"
"They took nothing at all," Philippa sighed.
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