“We have been very nearly foolish,” he told her, with grave kindliness. “It is well, perhaps, that we were in time. Those windows which lead into your library,—through which I first came to you, by-the-by,—” he added, with a strange, reminiscent little sigh, “are they open?”
“Yes!” she whispered.
“Come, then,” he invited. “Before I leave there is something I want to make clear to you.”
They made their way rather like two conspirators along the little terraced walk. Philippa opened the window and closed it again behind them. The room was empty. Lessingham, watching her closely, almost groaned as he saw the wonderful relief in her face. She threw off the cloak, and he groaned again as he remembered how nearly it had been his task to remove it. In her plain travelling dress, she turned and looked at him very pathetically.
“You have, perhaps, a morning paper here?” he enquired.
“A newspaper? Why, yes, the Times,” she answered, a little surprised.
He took it from the table towards which she pointed, and held it under the lamplight. Presently he called to her. His forefinger rested upon a certain column.
“Read this,” he directed.
She read it out in a tone which passed from surprise to blank wonder:
Commander Sir Henry Cranston, Baronet, to receive the D.S.O. for special services, and to be promoted to the rank of Acting Rear-Admiral.