“Alas!” he murmured, “for the moment I forgot the somewhat unusual circumstances of our meeting. Permit me to offer you what I trust you will accept as the equivalent of a letter of introduction.”
“A letter of introduction,” Philippa repeated, glancing at his disordered clothes, “and you come in through the window!”
“Believe me,” the intruder assured her, “it was the only way.”
“Perhaps you will tell me, then,” Philippa demanded, her anger gradually giving way to bewilderment, “what is wrong with my front door?”
“For all I know, dear lady,” the newcomer confessed, “yours may be an excellent front door. I would ask you, however, to consider my appearance. I have been obliged to conclude the last few miles of my journey in somewhat ignominious fashion. My clothes—they were quite nice clothes, too, when I started,” he added, looking down at himself ruefully—“have suffered. And, as you perceive, I have lost my hat.”
“Your hat?” Helen exclaimed, with a sudden glance at Nora's trophy.
“Precisely! I might have posed before your butler, perhaps, as belonging to what you call the hatless brigade, but the mud upon my clothes, and these unfortunate rents in my garments, would have necessitated an explanation which I thought better avoided. I make myself quite clear, I trust?”
“Clear?” Philippa murmured helplessly.
“Clear?” Helen echoed, with a puzzled frown.
“I mean, of course,” their visitor explained, “so far as regards my choosing this somewhat surreptitious form of entrance into your house.”