“Herr Harlberg!” he shouted. “Herr Harlberg!”
Harlberg hurried out with more eagerness than he was used to show about anything. “What is the matter, Count?”
“Fräulein Philippa? Has she returned?”
“Not five minutes ago.”
“Heaven be thanked,” Zarka exclaimed with simulated relief. “I feared an accident had befallen her. General, you ought to warn her against solitary strolls in the forest.”
“Why, what made you think anything was wrong, Count?” Harlberg asked, in a tone which did not indicate that he was absolutely convinced of his visitor’s sincerity.
But Zarka knew both his man and the power of a surprise. He was not going to discount the effect of his discovery upon Philippa by allowing the knowledge of it to filter through her father.
“Ask Fräulein Philippa to come to us,” he said almost peremptorily, as he swung himself out of the saddle and entered the house, “and you shall hear.”
Harlberg called her, and she came into the room where Zarka stood impatiently playing with his riding whip. His quick eye detected a certain only half hidden radiance in her face, and he felt that he could guess its cause. Harlberg turned to him invitingly for his explanation.
“I think,” Zarka began, “I have to congratulate you, Fräulein, on a lucky escape.”