"But it is impossible!" she pointed out. "My brother is a prisoner
of war in Germany."

"Precisely," he replied, "and not, I am afraid, under the happiest
conditions, he has been unfortunate in his camp. Let us talk about
him, shall we?"

"Are you mad," Helen demanded, "or are you trying to confuse us?"

"My dear young lady!" he protested. "Why suppose such a thing? I
was flattering myself that my conversation and deportment were,
under the circumstances, perfectly rational."

"But you are talking nonsense," Philippa insisted. "You say that
you saw Major Felstead fifty-six hours ago. You cannot mean us to
believe that fifty-six hours ago you were at Wittenberg."

"That is precisely what I have been trying to tell you," he agreed.

"But it isn't possible!" Helen gasped.

"Quite, I assure you," he continued; "in fact, we should have been
here before but for a little uncertainty as to your armaments along
the coast. There was a gun, we were told, somewhere near here,
which we were credibly informed had once been fired without the
slightest accident."

Philippa's eyes seemed to grow larger and rounder.

"He's raving!" she decided.