"
"Isn't there some truth in what I have just said?" Julian asked
sternly.
"Not a word."
Julian was silent for a moment. Furley was sitting upright upon
the sofa, his keen eyes aglint with anger.
"I am waiting for an explanation, Julian," he announced.
"You shall have it," was the prompt reply. "The companion of the
man who was shot, for whom the police are searching at this
moment, is a guest in my father's house. I have had to go to the
extent of lying to save her from detection."
"Her?" Furley gasped.
"Yes! The youth in fisherman's oilskins, into whose hands that
message passed last night, is Miss Catherine Abbeway. The young
lady has referred me to you for some explanation as to its being
in her possession."
Furley remained absolutely speechless for several moments. His
first expression was one of dazed bewilderment. Then the light
broke in upon him. He began to understand. When he spoke, all
the vigour had left his tone.
"You'll have to let me think about this for a moment, Julian," he
said.
"Take your own time. I only want an explanation."
Furley recovered himself slowly. He stretched out his hand
towards the pipe rack, filled another pipe and lit it. Then he
began.
"Julian," he said, "every word that I have spoken to you about the
night before last is the truth. There is a further confession,
however, which under the circumstances I have to make. I belong
to a body of men who are in touch with a similar association in
Germany, but I have no share in any of the practical doings--the
machinery, I might call it--of our organisation.
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