“Maderstrom,” Captain Griffiths said thoughtfully, “was, curiously enough, an intimate college friend of your brother's. He was also a visitor at Wood Norton Hall. At neither place is there any trace of Mr. Hamar Lessingham. Perhaps you have made a mistake, Lady Cranston. Perhaps you have recognised the man and failed to remember his name. If so, now is the moment to declare it.” “I am very much obliged to you,” Philippa retorted, “but I have never met or heard of this Mr. Maderstrom--” “Baron Maderstrom,” he interrupted. “Baron Maderstrom, then, in my life; whereas Mr. Lessingham I remember perfectly.” “I am sorry,” Captain Griffiths said, setting down his empty teacup and rising slowly to his feet. “We cannot help one another, then.” “If you want me to transfer Mr. Lessingham, whom I remember perfectly, into a German baron whom I never heard of,” Philippa declared boldly, “I am afraid that we can't.” “Baron Maderstrom was a Swedish nobleman,” Captain Griffiths observed. “Swedish or German, I know nothing of him,” Philippa persisted. “There remains, then, nothing more to be said.” “I am afraid not,” Philippa agreed sweetly. “Under the circumstances,” Captain Griffiths asked, “you will not, I am sure, expect me to dine to-night.” “Not if you object to meeting Mr. Hamar Lessingham,” Philippa replied. Her visitor's face suddenly darkened, and Philippa wondered vaguely whether anything more than professional suspicion was responsible for that little storm of passion which for a moment transformed his appearance. He quickly recovered, however. “I may still,” he concluded, moving towards the door, “be forced to present myself here in another capacity.” CHAPTER XXII The confinement of the house, after the departure of her unwelcome visitor, stifled Philippa. Attired in a mackintosh, with a scarf around her head, she made her way on to the quay, and, clinging to the railing, dragged herself along to where the fishermen were gathered together in a little group. The storm as yet showed no signs of abatement. “Has anything been heard of Ben Oates' boat?” she enquired. An old fisherman pointed seawards. “There she comes, ma'am, up on the crest of that wave; look!” “Will she get in?” Philippa asked eagerly. There were varied opinions, expressed in indistinct mutterings. “She's weathering it grand,” the fisherman to whom she had first spoken, declared. “We've a line ready yonder, and we're reckoning on getting 'em ashore all right. Lucky for Ben that the gentleman along with him is a fine sailor. Look at that, mum!” he added in excitement. “See the way he brought her head round to it, just in time. Boys, they'll come in on the next one!”