“In Julian Orden’s rooms,” she said, “I found a letter from the editor of the British Review, warning him that his anonymity could not be preserved much longer--that before many weeks had passed the world would know that he was Paul Fiske. Here is the letter.” She passed it around. They studied it, one by one. They were all a little stunned. “Julian!” Furley exclaimed, in blank amazement. “Why, he’s been pulling my leg for more than a year!” “The son of an Earl!” Cross gasped. “Never mind about that. He is a democrat and honest to the backbone,” Catherine declared. “The Bishop will tell you so. He has known him all his life. Think! Julian Orden has no purpose to serve, no selfish interest to further. He has nothing to gain, everything to lose. If he were not sincere, if those words of his, which we all remember, did not come from his heart, where could be the excuse, the reason, for what he stands for? Think what it means to us!” “He is the man, isn’t he,” Sands asked mysteriously, “whom they are looking after down yonder?” “I don’t know where ‘down yonder’ is,” Catherine replied, “but you have him in your power somewhere. He left his rooms last Thursday at about a quarter past six, to take that packet to the Foreign Office, or to make arrangements for its being received there. He never reached the Foreign Office. He hasn’t been heard of since. Some of you know where he is. The Bishop and I want to go and find him at once.” “Fenn and Bright know,” Cross declared. “It’s Bright’s job.” “Why is Bright in it?” Catherine asked impatiently. Cross frowned and puckered up his lips, an odd trick of his when he was displeased. “Bright represents the workers in chemical factories,” he explained. “They say that there isn’t a poison in liquid, solid or gas form, that he doesn’t know all about. Chap who gives me kind of shivers whenever he comes near. He and Fenn run the secret service branch of the Council.” “If he knows where Mr. Orden is, couldn’t we send for him at once?” Catherine suggested. “I’ll go,” Furley volunteered. He was back in a few minutes. “Fenn and Bright are both out,” he announced, “and their rooms locked up. I rang up Fenn’s house, but he hasn’t been back.” Catherine stamped her foot. She was on fire with impatience. “Doesn’t it seem too bad!” she exclaimed. “If we could only get hold of Julian Orden to-night, if the Bishop and I could talk to him for five minutes, we could have this message for which we have been waiting so long.” The door was suddenly opened. Fenn entered and received a little chorus of welcome. He was wearing a rough black overcoat over his evening clothes, and a black bowler hat. He advanced to the table with a little familiar swagger. “Mr. Fenn,” the Bishop said, “we have been awaiting your arrival anxiously. Tell us, please, where we can find Mr. Julian Orden.” Fenn gave vent to a half-choked, ironical laugh.