"If so, I'm on."
Julian, who had been waiting near the door, locked it. Fenn
started.
"What the devil's that for?" he demanded.
"Just a precaution. We don't want to be interrupted."
Julian moved towards a little vacant space at the end of the table
and stood there, his hands upon the back of a chair. The Bishop
remained by his side, his eyes downcast as though in prayer.
Catherine had accepted the seat pushed forward by Cross. The
atmosphere of the room, which at first had been only expectant,
became tense.
"My friends," Julian began, "a few hours ago you came to a
momentous decision. You are all at work, prepared to carry that
decision into effect. I have come to see you because I am very
much afraid that we have been the victims of false statements, the
victims of a disgraceful plot."
"Rubbish!" Fenn scoffed. "You're ratting, that's what you are."
"You'd better thank Providence," Julian replied sternly, "that
there is time for you to rat, too--that is, if you have any care
for your country. Now, Mr. Fenn, I am going to ask you a
question. You led us to believe, this evening, that, although all
letters had been destroyed, you were in constant communication
with Freistner. When did you hear from him last--personally, I
mean?"
"Last week," Fenn answered boldly, "and the week before that."
"And you have destroyed those letters?"
"Of course I have! Why should I keep stuff about that would hang
me?"
"You cannot produce, then, any communication from Freistner,
except the proposals of peace, written within the last--say--
month?"
"What the mischief are you getting at?" Fenn demanded hotly.
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