“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