Philippa and Helen met in the drawing-room, a few minutes before eight that evening. Philippa was wearing a new black dress, a model of simplicity to the untutored eye, but full of that undefinable appeal to the mysterious which even the greatest artist frequently fails to create out of any form of colour. Some fancy had induced her to strip off her jewels at the last moment, and she wore no ornaments save a band of black velvet around her neck. Helen looked at her curiously. “Is this a fresh scheme for conquest, Philippa?” she asked, as they stood together by the log fire. Philippa unexpectedly flushed. “I don't know what I was thinking about, really,” she confessed. “Is that the exact time, I wonder?” “Two minutes to eight,” Helen replied. “Mr. Lessingham is always so punctual,” Philippa murmured. “I wonder if Captain Griffiths would dare!” “We've done our best to warn him,” Helen reminded her friend. “The man is simply pig-headed.” “I can't help feeling that he's right,” Philippa declared, “when he argues that they couldn't really prove anything against him.” “Does that matter,” Helen asked anxiously, “so long as he is an enemy, living under a false name here?” “You don't think they'd--they'd--” “Shoot him?” Helen whispered, lowering her voice. “They couldn't do that! They couldn't do that!” The clock began to chime. Suddenly Philippa, who had been listening, gave a little exclamation of relief. “I hear his voice!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness!” Helen's relief was almost as great as her companion's. A moment later Mills ushered in their guest. He was still wearing his bandage, but his colour had returned. He seemed, in fact, almost gay. “Nothing has happened, then?” Philippa demanded anxiously, as soon as the door was closed. “Nothing at all,” he assured them. “Our friend Griffiths is terribly afraid of making a mistake.” “So afraid that he wouldn't come and dine. Never mind, you'll have to take care of us both,” she added, as Mills announced dinner. “I'll do my best,” he promised, offering his arm.