She was seized by a fit of nervous anxiety which became almost a paroxysm. She buttoned his coat for him and almost dragged him to the door. And then she stopped for a moment to listen. Her eyes became distended. Her lips were parted. She shook as though with an ague.
“It is too late!” she faltered hysterically. “I can hear Henry's voice! Quick! Come to the window. You must get out that way and through the postern gate.”
“Your husband will have seen the car,” he protested. “And besides, there is your dressing-bag and your travelling coat.”
“I shall tell him everything,” she declared wildly. “Nothing matters except that you escape. Oh, hurry! I can hear Henry talking to Jimmy Dumble—for God's sake—”
The words died away upon her lips. The door had been opened and closed again immediately. There was the quick turn of the lock, sounding like the click of fate. Sir Henry, well inside the room, nodded to them both affably.
“Well, Philippa? You weren't expecting me, eh? Hullo, Lessingham! Not gone yet? Running it a trifle fine, aren't you?”
Lessingham glanced towards the fastened door.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, “a trifle too fine.”
Sir Henry was suddenly taken by storm. Philippa had thrown herself into his arms. Her fingers were locked around his neck. Her lips, her eyes, were pleading with him.
“Henry! Henry, you must forgive me! I never knew—I never dreamed what you were really doing. I shall never forgive myself, but you—you will be generous.”