"
Fenn frowned a little peevishly as he rose to usher his visitor
out.
"Miss Abbeway has already extorted a foolish promise from us," he
said. "The young man's safety for the present is not in
question."
The Bishop, more from custom than from any appetite, walked across
the Park to the Athenaeum. Mr. Hannaway Wells accosted him in the
hall.
"This is a world of rumours," he remarked with a smile. "I have
just heard that Julian Orden, of all men in the world, has been
shot as a German spy."
The Bishop smiled with dignity.
"You may take it from me," he said gravely, "that the rumour is
untrue."
CHAPTER XI
Nicholas Fenn, although civilisation had laid a heavy hand upon
him during the last few years, was certainly not a man whose
outward appearance denoted any advance in either culture or taste.
His morning clothes, although he had recently abandoned the habit
of dealing at a ready-made emporium, were neither well chosen nor
well worn. His evening attire was, if possible, worse. He met
Catherine that evening in the lobby of what he believed to be a
fashionable grillroom, in a swallow-tailed coat, a badly fitting
shirt with a single stud-hole, a black tie, a collar which
encircled his neck like a clerical band, and ordinary walking
boots. She repressed a little shiver as she shook hands and tried
to remember that this was not only the man whom several millions
of toilers had chosen to be their representative, but also the
duly appointed secretary of the most momentous assemblage of human
beings in the world's history.
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