The Girl Philippa

Halkett cast a rapid glance around him; apparently he saw nothing to disturb him. Then he whipped out from his pocket a long, very thin envelope and passed it to Warner, who immediately slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat."That's very decent of you," said Halkett in a low voice. His attractive face had grown serious and a trifle pale. "I shan't forget this," he said. Warner laughed."You're a very convincing Englishman," he said. "I can't believe you're not all right.""I'm right enough. But you are all white. What is your name?""I had better write it out for you.""No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then: "James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La Pêche d'Or at Saïs.""By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?""I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually paint military subjects.""I knew you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the way you paint must be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did 'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"Warner laughed, coloring a little."Did you really like those pictures?"