Catherine rose to her feet. She faced the two men, her eyes flashing with anger.
"The Council will require an explanation of this, Mr. Fenn!" she declared passionately. "Barely an hour ago you told us that Mr.
Orden had escaped from Hampstead."
"Julian Orden," Fenn replied, "has been handed over to our secret service by the unanimous vote of the Council. We have absolute liberty to deal with him as we think fit."
"Have you liberty to tell lies as to his whereabouts?" Catherine demanded. "You deliberately told the Council he had escaped, yet, entirely owing to Mr. Furley, I find you down here at Bermondsey with him. What were you going to do with him when I came in?"
"Persuade him to restore the packet, if we could," Fenn answered sullenly.
"Rubbish!" Catherine retorted. "You know very well that he is our friend. You have only to tell him the truth, and your task with him is at an end."
"Steady!" Julian muttered. "Don't imagine that I have any sympathy with your little nest of conspirators."
"That is only because you do not understand," Catherine assured him. "Listen, and you shall hear the whole truth. I will tell you what is inside that packet and whose signatures you will find there."
Julian gripped her wrist suddenly. His eyes were filled with a new fear. He was watching the two men, who were whispering together.
"Catherine," he exclaimed warningly, "look out! These men mean mischief. That devil Bright invents a new poisonous gas every day. Look at Fenn buckling on his mask. Quick! Get out if you can!"
Catherine's hand touched her bosom. Bright sprang towards her, but he was too late. She raised a little gold whistle to her lips, and its pealing summons rang through the room. Fenn dropped his mask and glanced towards Bright. His face was livid.
"Who's outside?" he demanded.
"The Bishop and Mr. Furley. Great though my confidence is in you both, I scarcely ventured to come here alone."
The approaching footsteps were plainly audible. Fenn shrugged his shoulders with a desperate attempt at carelessness.
"I don't know what is in your mind, Miss Abbeway," he said. "You can scarcely believe that you, at any rate, were in danger at our hands."
"I would not trust you a yard," she replied fiercely. "In any case, it is better that the others should come. Mr. Orden might not believe me. He will at least believe the Bishop."
"Believe whom?" Julian demanded.
The door was opened. The Bishop and Miles Furley came hastily in.
Catherine stepped forward to meet them.
"I was obliged to whistle," she explained, a little hysterically.
"I do not trust either of these men. That fiend Bright has a poisonous gas with him in a pocket cylinder. I am convinced that they meant to murder Julian."
The two newcomers turned towards the couch and exchanged amazed greetings with Julian. Fenn threw his mask on to the table with an uneasy laugh.
"Miss Abbeway," he protested, "is inclined to be melodramatic.
The gas which Bright has in that cylinder is simply one which would produce a little temporary unconsciousness. We might have used it - we may still use it - but if you others are able to persuade Mr. Orden to restore the packet, our task with him is at an end. We are not his gaolers - or perhaps he would say his torturers - for pleasure. The Council has ordered that we should extort from him the papers you know of and has given us carte blanche as to the means. If you others can persuade him to restore them peaceably, why, do it. We are prepared to wait."
Julian was still staring from one to the other of his visitors.
His expression of blank astonishment had scarcely decreased.
"Bishop," he said at last, "unless you want to see me go insane before your eyes, please explain. It can't be possible that you have anything in common with this nest of conspirators."
The Bishop smiled a little wanly. He laid his hand upon his godson's shoulder.
"Believe me, I have been no party to your incarceration, Julian,", he declared, "but if you will listen to me, I will tell you why I think it would be better for you to restore that packet to Miss Abbeway:"
"Tell that blackguard to give me another sniff of his restorative gas," Julian begged. "These shocks are almost too much for me."
The Bishop turned interrogatively towards Bright, who once more leaned over Julian with the tube in his hand. Again the little mist, the pungent odour. Julian rose to his feet and sat down again.
"I am listening," he said.
"First of all," began the Bishop earnestly, as he seated himself at the end of the couch on which Julian had been lying, "let me try to remove some of your misconceptions. Miss Abbeway is in no sense of the word a German spy. She and I, Mr. Furley here, Mr.
Fenn and Mr. Bright, all belong to an organisation leagued together for one purpose - we are determined to end the war."
"Pacifists!" Julian; muttered.
"An idle word," the Bishop protested, "because at heart we are all pacifists. There is not one of us who would wilfully choose war instead of peace. The only question is the price we are prepared to pay."
"Why not leave that to the Government?"
"The Government," the Bishop replied, "are the agents of the people. The people in this case wish to deal direct."
"Again why?" Julian demanded.
"Because the Government is composed wholly of politicians, politicians who, in far too many speeches, have pledged themselves to too many definite things. Still, the Government will have its chance."
"Explain to me," Julian asked, "why, if you are a patriotic society, you are in secret and illegal communication with Germany?"
"The Germany with whom we are in communication," the Bishop assured his questioner, "is the Germany who thinks as we do."
"Then you are on a wild-goose chase," Julian declared, "because the Germans who think as you do are in a hopeless minority."
The Bishop's forefinger was thrust out.
