“It wasn’t on Orden,” he reminded her sullenly. “Then he must have sent it somewhere for safe keeping,” she replied. “I had already given him cause to do so.” “If he has, then amongst his correspondence there may be some indication as to where he sent it,” Fenn pointed out, with unabated ill-temper. “If you don’t like the job, and you won’t be friendly, you’d better take the easy-chair and wait till I’m through.” She sat down, watching him with angry eyes, uncomfortable, unhappy, humiliated. She seemed to have dropped in a few hours from the realms of rarefied and splendid thought to a world of petty deeds. Not one of her companion’s actions was lost upon her. She watched him study with ill-concealed reverence a ducal invitation, saw him read through without hesitation a letter which she felt sure was from Julian’s mother. And then: The change in the man was so startling, his muttered exclamation--so natural that its profanity never even grated. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his head, his lips were drawn back from his teeth. Blank, unutterable surprise held him, dumb and spellbound, as he stared at a half-sheet of type written notepaper. She herself, amazed at his transformed appearance, found words for the moment impossible. Then a queer change came into his expression. His eyebrows drew closer together, his lips turned malevolently. He pushed the paper underneath a pile of others and turned his head towards her. Their eyes met. There was something like fear in his. “What is it that you have found?” she cried breathlessly. “Nothing,” he answered, “nothing of any importance.” She rose slowly to her feet and came towards him. “I am your partner in this hateful enterprise,” she reminded him. “Show me that paper which you have just concealed.” He laid his hand on the lid of the desk, but she caught it and held it open. “I insist upon seeing it,” she said firmly. He turned and faced her. There was a most unpleasant light in his eyes. “And I say that you shall not,” he declared. There was a brief, intense silence. Each seemed to be measuring the other’s strength. Of the two, Catherine was the more composed. Fenn’s face was still white and strained. His lips were twitching, his manner nervous and jerky. He made a desperate effort to reestablish ordinary relations. “Look here, Miss Abbeway,” he said, “we don’t need to quarrel about this. That paper I came across has a special interest for me personally. I want to think about it before I say anything to a soul in the world.” “You can consult with me,” she persisted. “Our aims are the same. We are here for the same purpose.” “Not altogether,” he objected. “I brought you here as my assistant.” “Did you?” “Well, have the truth, then!” he exclaimed. “I brought you here to be alone with you, because I hoped that I might find you a little kinder.” “I am afraid you have been disappointed, haven’t you?” she asked sweetly.