“You are right,” he declared, straightening himself.  “Wait for a few minutes, dear.  We shall find them all at Westminster—­the place will be open all night.  Close your eyes and rest while I am away.”

“I am rested,” she answered softly, “but do not be long.  The car is outside, and on the way I have more to tell you about Nicholas Fenn.”

CHAPTER XXI

If the closely drawn blinds of the many windows of Westminster Buildings could have been raised that night and early morning, the place would have seemed a very hive of industry.  Twenty men were hard at work in twenty different rooms.  Some went about their labours doubtfully, some almost timorously, some with jubilation, one or two with real regret.  Under their fingers grew the more amplified mandates which, following upon the bombshell of the already prepared telegrams, were within a few hours to paralyse industrial England, to keep her ships idle in the docks, her trains motionless upon the rails, her mines silent, her forges cold, her great factories empty.  Even the least imaginative felt the thrill, the awe of the thing he was doing.  On paper, in the brain, it seemed so wonderful, so logical, so certain of the desired result.  And now there were other thoughts forcing their way to the front.  How would their names live in history?  How would Englishmen throughout the world regard this deed?  Was it really the truth they were following, or some false and ruinous shadow?  These were fugitive doubts, perhaps, but to more than one of those midnight toilers they presented themselves in the guise of a chill and drear presentiment.

They all heard a motor-car stop outside.  No one, however, thought it worth while to discontinue his labours for long enough to look out and see who this nocturnal visitor might be.  In a very short time, however, these labours were disturbed.  From room to room, Julian, with Catherine and the Bishop, for whom they had called on the way, passed with a brief message.  No one made any difficulty about coming to the Council room.  The first protest was made when they paid the visit which they had purposely left until last.  Nicholas Fenn had apparently finished or discontinued his efforts.  He was seated in front of his desk, his chin almost resting upon his folded arms, and a cigarette between his lips.  Bright was lounging in an easy-chair within a few feet of him.  Their heads were close together; their conversation, whatever the subject of it may have been, was conducted in whispers.  Apparently they had not heard Julian’s knock, for they started apart, when the door was opened, like conspirators.  There was something half-fearful, half-malicious in Fenn’s face, as he stared at them.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.  “What’s wrong?”

Julian closed the door.

“A great deal,” he replied curtly.  “We have been around to every one of the delegates and asked them to assemble in the Council room.  Will you and Bright come at once?”