“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.”