Helen gazed at the gold-printed letters a little incredulously.
“Read it out,” Nora insisted.
Helen obeyed:
“Schmidt,
Berlin,
Unter den Linden, 127.”
“That sounds German,” she admitted.
“It's a trophy, all right,” Nora declared. “One of the crew—probably the Commander—must have come on board in a hurry and changed into uniform after they had started.”
“It is my painful duty, Miss Nora,” Harrison announced solemnly, “to inform you, on behalf of Captain Griffiths, that all articles of whatsoever description, found in the vicinity of Dutchman's Common, which might possibly have belonged to any one in the Zeppelin, must be sent at once to the War Office.”
“Rubbish!” Nora scoffed. “The War Office aren't going to have my hat.”
“Duty,” the young man began—
“You can go back to the Depot and do your duty, then, Mr. Harrison,” Nora interrupted, “but you're not going to have my hat. I'd throw it into the fire sooner than give it up.”