“Of course you had to do it if you could,” Philippa sobbed. “I think it was very clever of you.”
He smiled.
“There are others who might look at the matter differently,” he said. “I am going to ask you a question which I know is unnecessary, but I must have your answer to take away with me. If you had known all the time that your husband, instead of being a skulker, as you thought him, was really doing splendid work for his country, you would not have listened to me for one moment, would you? You would not have let me grow to love you?”
She clutched his hands.
“You are the dearest man in the world,” she exclaimed, her lips still quivering, “but, as you say, you know the answer. I was always in love with Henry. It was because I loved him that I was so furious. I liked you so much that it was mean of me ever to think of—of what so nearly happened.”
“So nearly happened!” he repeated, with a sudden access of the bitterest self-pity.
Once more the low, warning hoot of the motor horn, this time a little more impatient, broke the silence. Philippa was filled with an unreasoning terror.
“You must go!” she implored. “You must go this minute! If they were to take you, I couldn't bear it. And that man Griffiths—he has sworn that if he can not get the Government authority, he will shoot you!”
“Griffiths has gone to London,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but he may be back by this train,” she cried, glancing at the clock, “and I have a strange sort of fancy—I have had it all day—that Henry might come, too. It is overdue now. Any one might arrive here. Oh, please, for my sake, hurry away!” she begged, the tears streaming from her eyes. “If anything should happen, I could never forgive myself. It is because you have been so dear, so true and honourable, that all this time has been wasted. If it were to cost you your life!”