She ignored him and started to read the letter, glancing first at the address at the top. It was from the British Review, and was dated a few days back: My dear Orden, I think it best to let you know, in case you haven’t seen it yourself, that there is a reward of 100 pounds offered by some busybody for the name of the author of the ‘Paul Fiske’ articles. Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now, but I feel compelled to warn you that a disclosure is imminent. Take my advice and accept it with a good grace. You have established yourself so irrevocably now that the value of your work will not be lessened by the discovery of the fact that you yourself do not belong to the class of whom you have written so brilliantly. I hope to see you in a few days. Sincerely, M. HALKIN. Even after she had concluded the letter, she still stared at it. She read again the one conclusive sentence--“Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now.” Then she suddenly broke into a laugh which was almost hysterical. “So this is his hack journalism!” she exclaimed. “Julian Orden--Paul Fiske!” “I don’t wonder you’re surprised,” Fenn observed. “Fourteen guineas for a dress suit, and he thinks he understands the working man!” She turned her head slowly and looked at him. There was a strange, repressed fire in her eyes. “You are a very foolish person,” she said. “Your parents, I suppose, were small shopkeepers, or something of the sort, and you were brought up at a board-school and Julian Orden at Eton and Oxford, and yet he understands, and you do not. You see, heart counts, and sympathy, and the flair for understanding. I doubt whether these things are really found where you come from.” He caught up his hat. His face was very white. His tone shook with anger. “This is our own fault,” he exclaimed angrily, “for having ever permitted an aristocrat to hold any place in our counsels! Before we move a step further, we’ll purge them of such helpers as you and such false friends as Julian Orden.” “You very foolish person,” she repeated. “Stop, though. Why all this mystery? Why did you try to keep that letter from me?” “I conceived it to be for the benefit of our cause,” he said didactically, “that the anonymity--of ‘Paul Fiske’ should be preserved.” “Rubbish!” she scoffed. “You were afraid of him. Why, what fools we are! We will tell him the whole truth. We will tell him of our great scheme. We will tell him what we have been working for, these many months. The Bishop shall tell him, and you and I, and Miles Furley, and Cross. He shall hear all about it. He is with us! He must be with us! You shall put him on the Council. Why, there is your great difficulty solved,” she went on, in growing excitement. “There is not a working man in the country who would not rally under ‘Paul Fiske’s’ banner. There you have your leader. It is he who shall deliver your ultimatum.”