"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.
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