n to touch my papers here, although, as it happens, they
wouldn't have done him the least bit of good. It was only the stress
and excitement of the shipwreck last week that he ventured to steal the
chart which I had so carefully prepared for him. I really think, if
he hadn't done that, I should have had to slip it into his pocket or
absolutely force it upon him somehow. He sends it off like a lamb and
behold the result! We've crippled the German Navy for the rest of the
war."

"It was a faked chart, then, of course?" Richard demanded breathlessly.

"And quite the cleverest I ever prepared," Sir Henry acknowledged. "I
can assure you that it would have taken in Von Tirpitz himself, if he'd
got hold of it."

"But where is Maderstrom now, sir?" Richard asked.

Sir Henry moved his head towards the window, where Philippa, for the
last few moments, had softly taken her place. Her eyes were watching
a green light bobbing up and down in the distance. Suddenly she gave a
little exclamation.

"It's moving!" she cried. "He's off!"

"He's safe on a Dutch trawler," Sir Henry declared. "And I think," he
added, moving towards the sideboard, "it's time you and I had a drink
together, Dick."

They helped themselves to whisky and soda. There were still many
explanations to be given. Half-concealed by the curtain, Philippa stood
with her eyes turned seawards. The green light was dimmer now, and the
low, black outline of the trawler crept slowly over the glittering track
of moonlight. She gave a little start as it came into sight. There was
a sob in her throat, tears burning in her eyes. Her fingers clutched the
curtains almost passionately. She stood there watching until her eyes
ached. Then she felt an arm around her waist and her husband's whisper
in her ear.

"I haven't let you wander too far, have I, Phil?"

She turned quickly towards him, eager for the comfort of his extended
arms. Her face was buried in his shoulder.

"You know," she murmured.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Zeppelin's Passenger, by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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