"The Council has rescinded its instructions with regard to Julian Orden," Fenn announced, "and is anxious to have him brought before them at once. As you know, we are for the moment powerless in the matter. Will you please explain to Miss Abbeway and the Bishop here just what has been done?"
"It seems a waste of time," Bright replied ill-naturedly, "but here is the story. Julian Orden left his rooms at a quarter to six on Thursday evening. He walked down to St. James's Street and turned into the Park. Just as he passed the side door of Marlborough House he was attacked by a sudden faintness."
"For which, I suppose," the Bishop interrupted, "you were responsible."
"I or my deputy," Bright replied. "It doesn't matter which. He was fortunate enough to be able to hail a passing taxicab and was driven to my house in Hampstead. He has spent the intervening period, until three o'clock this afternoon, in a small laboratory attached to the premises."
"A compulsory stay, I presume?" the Bishop ventured.
"A compulsory stay, arranged for under instructions from the Council," Bright assented, in his hard, rasping voice. "He has been most of the time under the influence of some new form of anaesthetic gas with which I have been experimenting. To-night, however, I must have made a mistake in my calculations. Instead of remaining in a state of coma until midnight, he recovered during my absence and appears to have walked out of the place."
"You have no idea where he is at the present moment, then?"
Catherine asked.
"Not the slightest," Bright assured her. "I only know that he left the place without hat, gloves, or walking stick. Otherwise, he was fully dressed, and no doubt had plenty of money in his pocket."
"Is he likely to have any return of the indisposition from which, owing to your efforts, he has been suffering?" the Bishop enquired.
"I should say not," was the curt answer. "He may find his memory somewhat affected temporarily. He ought to be able to find his way home, though. If not, I suppose you'll hear of him through the police courts or a hospital. Nothing that we have done," he added, after a moment's pause, "is likely to affect his health permanently in the slightest degree."
"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 ****** 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 known," 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.
"Nicholas," he said, "I don't blame you for fencing, but I like plain words. You've done well out of this new Party. I haven't.
You've no hobby except saving your money. I have. My last two experiments, notwithstanding the Government allowance, have left me drained. I need money as you others need bread. I can live without food or drink, but I can't be without the means to keep my laboratories going. Do you understand me?"
"I do," Fenn assented, taking up his hat. "Come, I'll drive towards Bermondsey with you. We'll talk on the way."
