“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.  His eyes had fallen before her passionate gaze.  The penholder which he was grasping snapped in his fingers.  Nevertheless, his voice still performed its office.

“My dear Miss Abbeway,” he protested, “who or what has been putting these ideas into your head?”

“A veritable chance,” she replied, “brought me yesterday afternoon into contact with a man—­a neutral—­who is supposed to be very intimately acquainted with what goes on in Germany.”

“What did he tell you?” Fenn demanded feverishly.

“He told me nothing,” she admitted.  “I have no more to go on than an uplifted eyebrow.  All the same, I came away feeling uneasy.  I have felt wretched ever since.  I am wretched now.  I beg you to get at once into touch with Freistner.  You can do that now without any risk.  Simply ask him for a confirmation of the existing situation.”

“That is quite easy,” Fenn promised.  “I will do it without delay.  But in the meantime,” he added, moistening his dry lips, “can’t you possibly get to know what this man—­this neutral—­is driving at?”

“I fear not,” she replied, “but I shall try.  I have invited him to dine to-night.”

“If you discover anything, when shall you let us know?”

“Immediately,” she promised.  “I shall telephone for Mr. Orden.”

For a moment he lost control of himself.

“Why Mr. Orden?” he demanded passionately.  “He is the youngest member of the Council.  He knows nothing of our negotiations with Freistner.  Surely I am the person with whom you should communicate?”

“It will be very late to-night,” she reminded him, “and Mr. Orden is my personal friend—­outside the Council.”

“And am I not?” he asked fiercely.  “I want to be.  I have tried to be.”

She appeared to find his agitation disconcerting, and she withdrew a little from the yellow-stained fingers which had crept out towards hers.