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.
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