“You now know all that there is to be known, Miss Abbeway,” Fenn said. “I agree with you that it is highly desirable that Mr. Orden should be found at once, and if you can suggest any way in which I might be of assistance in discovering his present whereabouts, I shall be only too glad to help. For instance, would you like me to telephone to his rooms?” Catherine rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Fenn,” she said, “I don’t think that we will trouble you. Mr. Furley is making enquiries both at Mr. Orden’s rooms and at his clubs.” “You are perfectly satisfied, so far as I am concerned, I trust?” he persisted, as he opened the door for them. “Perfectly satisfied,” Catherine replied, looking him in the face, “that you have told us as much as you choose to for the present.” Fenn closed the door behind Catherine and the Bishop and turned back into the room. Bright laughed at him unpleasantly. “Love affair not going so strong, eh?” Fenn threw himself into his chair, took a cigarette from a paper packet, and lit it. “Blast Julian Orden!” he muttered. “No objection,” his friend yawned. “What’s wrong now?” “Haven’t you heard the news? It seems he’s the fellow who has been writing those articles on Socialism and Labour, signing them ‘Paul Fiske.’ Idealistic rubbish, but of course the Bishop and his lot are raving about him.” “I’ve read some of his stuff,” Bright admitted, himself lighting a cigarette; “good in its way, but old-fashioned. I’m out for something a little more than that.” “Stick to the point,” Fenn enjoined morosely. “Now they’ve found out who Julian Orden is, they want him produced. They want to elect him on the Council, make him chairman over all our heads, let him reap the reward of the scheme which our brains have conceived.” “They want him, eh? That’s awkward.” “Awkward for us,” Fenn muttered. “They’d better have him, I suppose,” Bright said, with slow and evil emphasis. “Yes, they’d better have him. We’ll take off our hats, and assure him that it was a mistake.” “Too late. I’ve told Miss Abbeway and the Bishop that he is at large. You backed me up.” Bright thrust his long, unpleasant, knobby fingers into his pocket, and produced a crumpled cigarette, which he lit from the end of his companion’s. “Well,” he demanded, “what do you want?” “I have come to the conclusion,” Fenn decided, “that it is not in the interests of our cause that Orden should become associated with it in any way.” “We’ve a good deal of power,” Bright ruminated, “but it seems to me you’re inclined to stretch it. I gather that the others want him delivered up. We can’t act against them.” “Not if they know,” Fenn answered significantly. Bright came over to the mantelpiece, leaned his elbow upon it, and hung his extraordinarily unattractive face down towards his companion’s.