"
CHAPTER XXIII
Philippa and Helen met in the drawing-room, a few minutes before
eight that evening. Philippa was wearing a new black dress, a
model of simplicity to the untutored eye, but full of that
undefinable appeal to the mysterious which even the greatest
artist frequently fails to create out of any form of colour. Some
fancy had induced her to strip off her jewels at the last moment,
and she wore no ornaments save a band of black velvet around her
neck. Helen looked at her curiously.
"Is this a fresh scheme for conquest, Philippa?" she asked, as they
stood together by the log fire.
Philippa unexpectedly flushed.
"I don't know what I was thinking about, really," she confessed.
"Is that the exact time, I wonder?"
"Two minutes to eight," Helen replied.
"Mr. Lessingham is always so punctual," Philippa murmured. "I wonder
if Captain Griffiths would dare!"
"We've done our best to warn him," Helen reminded her friend. "The
man is simply pig-headed."
"I can't help feeling that he's right," Philippa declared, "when he
argues that they couldn't really prove anything against him."
"Does that matter," Helen asked anxiously, "so long as he is an
enemy, living under a false name here?"
"You don't think they'd--they'd--"
"Shoot him?" Helen whispered, lowering her voice. "They couldn't
do that! They couldn't do that!"
The clock began to chime.
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