The two women hastened towards the lamp.

"One moment, I beg," their visitor interposed. "I have established,
I trust, my credentials. May I remind you that I was compelled to
ensure the safety of these few minutes' conversation with you, by
locking that door. Are you likely to be disturbed?"

"No, no! No chance at all," Philippa assured him.

"If we are, we'll explain," Helen promised.

"In that case," the intruder begged, "perhaps you will excuse me."

He moved towards the door and softly turned the key, then he drew
the curtains carefully across the French windows. Afterwards he
made his way towards the tea-table. A little throbbing cry had
broken from Helen's lips.

"Philippa," she exclaimed, "it's from Dick! It's Dick's handwriting!"

Philippa's reply was incoherent. She was tearing open her own
envelope. With a well-satisfied smile, the bearer of these
communications seized a sandwich in one hand and poured himself out
some tea with the other. He ate and drank with the restraint of
good-breeding, but with a voracity which gave point to his plea of
starvation. A few yards away, the breathless silence between the
two women had given place to an almost hysterical series of
disjointed exclamations.

"It's from Dick!" Helen repeated. "It's his own dear handwriting.