"Telephone to 1884 Westminster. Say that you are speaking for
Miss Abbeway, and ask Mr. Furley, Mr. Cross, or whoever is there,
to come at once to this address."
"Look here, there's no sense in that," Fenn interrupted.
"Will you do as I ask, please, Robert?" she persisted.
The man bowed and left the room. Fenn strode sulkily back to the
desk.
"Very well, then," he conceded, "I give in. Give me the key, and
I'll show you the letter."
"You intend to keep your word?"
"I do," he assured her.
She held out the key. He took it, opened the desk, searched
amongst the little pile of papers, drew out the half-sheet of
notepaper, and handed it to her.
"There you are," he said, "although if you are really engaged to
marry Mr. Julian Orden," he added, with disagreeable emphasis, "I
am surprised that he should have kept such a secret from you."
She ignored him and started to read the letter, glancing first at
the address at the top. It was from the British Review, and was
dated a few days back:
My dear Orden,
I think it best to let you know, in case you haven't seen it
yourself, that there is a reward of 100 pounds offered by some
busybody for the name of the author of the `Paul Fiske' articles.
Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now, but I
feel compelled to warn you that a disclosure is imminent. Take my
advice and accept it with a good grace. You have established
yourself so irrevocably now that the value of your work will not
be lessened by the discovery of the fact that you yourself do not
belong to the class of whom you have written so brilliantly.
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