That devil Bright invents a new poisonous gas every
day. Look at Fenn buckling on his mask. Quick! Get out if you
can!"
Catherine's hand touched her bosom. Bright sprang towards her,
but he was too late. She raised a little gold whistle to her
lips, and its pealing summons rang through the room. Fenn dropped
his mask and glanced towards Bright. His face was livid.
"Who's outside?" he demanded.
"The Bishop and Mr. Furley. Great though my confidence is in you
both, I scarcely ventured to come here alone."
The approaching footsteps were plainly audible. Fenn shrugged his
shoulders with a desperate attempt at carelessness.
"I don't know what is in your mind, Miss Abbeway," he said. "You
can scarcely believe that you, at any rate, were in danger at our
hands."
"I would not trust you a yard," she replied fiercely. "In any
case, it is better that the others should come. Mr. Orden might
not believe me. He will at least believe the Bishop."
"Believe whom?" Julian demanded.
The door was opened. The Bishop and Miles Furley came hastily in.
Catherine stepped forward to meet them.
"I was obliged to whistle," she explained, a little hysterically.
"I do not trust either of these men. That fiend Bright has a
poisonous gas with him in a pocket cylinder. I am convinced that
they meant to murder Julian."
The two newcomers turned towards the couch and exchanged amazed
greetings with Julian. Fenn threw his mask on to the table with
an uneasy laugh.
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