"I came to you because I have been
very worried."
He withdrew a little into himself. His eyes narrowed. His manner
became more cautious.
"Worried?" he repeated. "Well?"
"I want to ask you this: have you heard anything from Freistner
during the last day or two?"
Fenn's face was immovable. He still showed no signs of
discomposure--his voice only was not altogether natural.
"Last day or two?" he repeated reflectively. "No, I can't say
that I have, Miss Abbeway. I needn't remind you that we don't
risk communications except when they are necessary."
"Will you try and get into touch with him at once?" she begged.
"Why?" Fenn asked, glancing at her searchingly.
"One of our Russian writers," she said, "once wrote that there are
a thousand eddies in the winds of chance. One of those has blown
my way to-day--or rather yesterday. Freistner is above all
suspicion, is he not?"
"Far above," was the confident reply. "I am not the only one who
knows him. Ask the others."
"Do you think it possible that he himself can have been deceived?"
she persisted.
"In what manner?"
"In his own strength--the strength of his own Party," she
proceeded eagerly. "Do you think it possible that the
Imperialists have pretended to recognise in him a far greater
factor in the situation than he really is? Have pretended to
acquiesce in these terms of peace with the intention of
repudiating them when we have once gone too far?"
Fenn seemed for a moment to have shrunk in his chair.
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