"Of mine and all of us," Julian retorted, "for I come now to a
certain question. Will you disclose your bank book?"
Fenn reeled for a moment in his seat. He affected not to have
heard the question.
"My what?" he stammered.
"Your bank book," Julian repeated calmly. "As you only received
your last instalment from Germany this week, you probably have not
yet had time to purchase stocks and shares or property wherever
your inclination leads you. I imagine, therefore, that there
would be a balance there of something like thirty thousand pounds,
the last payment made to you by a German agent now in London."
Fenn sprang to his feet. He had all the appearance of a man about
to make a vigorous and exhaustive defence. And then suddenly he
swayed, his face became horrible to look upon, his lips were
twisted.
"Brandy!" he cried. "Some one give me brandy! I am ill!"
He collapsed in a heap. They carried him on to a seat set against
the wall, and Catherine bent over him. He lay there, moaning.
They loosened his collar and poured restoratives between his
teeth. For a time he was silent. Then the moaning began again.
Julian returned to the table.
"Believe me," he said earnestly, "this is as much a tragedy to me
as to any one present. I believe that every one of you here
except--" he glanced towards the sofa--"except those whom we
will not name have gone into this matter honestly, as I did.
We've got to chuck it. Tear up your telegrams.
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