watchfulness and moved back on to the
hearth-rug, his hands behind him. He addressed himself to Philippa. It
was Philippa who had become his judge.

"I will claim nothing from you," he began, "for the services which I
have rendered to Richard. Our friendship was a real thing, and, finding
him in such straits, I would gladly, under any circumstances, have done
all that I have done. I am well paid for this by the thanks which you
have already proffered me."

"No thanks--nothing that we could do for you would be sufficient
recompense," Helen declared energetically.

"Let me speak for a moment of the future," he continued. "Supposing you
ring that telephone and hand me over to the authorities here? Well, that
will be the end of me, without a doubt. You will have done what seemed
to you to be the right thing, and I hope that that consciousness will
sustain you, for, believe me, though it may not be at my will, your
brother's life will most certainly answer for mine."

There was a slight pause. A sob broke from Helen's throat. Even
Philippa's lip quivered.

"Forgive me," he went on, "if that sounds like a threat. It was not so
meant. It is the simple truth. Let me hurry on to the future. I ask so
little of you. It is my duty to live in this spot for one month. What
harm can I do? You have no great concentration of soldiers here, no
docks, no fortifications, no industry. And in return for the slight
service of allowing me to remain here unmolested, I pledge my word that
Richard shall be set at liberty and shall be here with you within two
months."

Helen's face was transformed, her eyes glowed, her lips were parted
with eagerness. She turned towards Philippa, her expression, her whole
attitude an epitome of eloquent pleading.

"Philippa, you will not hesitate? You cannot?"

"I must," Philippa answered, struggling with her agitation. "I love Dick
more dearly than anything else on earth, but just now, Helen, we have to
remember, before everything, that we are English women. We have to
put our human feelings behind us. We are learning every day to make
sacrifices. You, too, must learn, dear. My answer to you, Baron
Maderstrom--or Mr. Lessingham, as you choose to call yourself--is no."

"Philippa, you are mad!" Helen exclaimed passionately. "Didn't I have to
realise all that you say when I let Dick go, cheerfully, the day
after we were engaged? Haven't I realised the duty of cheerfulness and
sacrifice through all these