“But surely,” Julian protested, “they don’t expect necessarily to find a leader of men in an anonymous contributor to the Reviews?  Fiske, when they have found him, may be a septuagenarian, or a man of academic turn of mind, who never leaves his study.  ’Paul Fiske’ may even be the pseudonym of a woman.”

The Earl rose from his place.

“This afternoon,” he announced, “I read the latest article of this Paul Fiske.  In my opinion he is an exceedingly mischievous person, without the slightest comprehension of the forces which really count in government.”

The Bishop’s eyes twinkled as he left the room with his hand on his godson’s arm.

“It would be interesting,” he whispered, “to hear this man Fiske’s opinion of your father’s last speech in the House of Lords upon land interests!”

It was not until the close of a particularly unsatisfactory evening of uninspiring bridge that Julian saw anything more of Catherine.  She came in from the picture gallery, breathless, followed by four or five of the young soldiers, to whom she had been showing the steps of a new dance, and, turning to Julian with an impulsiveness which surprised him, laid her fingers imperatively upon his arm.

“Take me somewhere, please, where we can sit down and talk,” she begged, “and give me something to drink.”

He led the way into the billiard room and rang the bell.

“You have been overtiring yourself,” he said, looking down at her curiously.

“Have I?” she answered.  “I don’t think so.  I used to dance all through the night in Paris and Rome, a few years ago.  These young men are so clumsy, though—­and I think that I am nervous.”

She lay back in her chair and half closed her eyes.  A servant brought in the Evian water for which she had asked and a whisky and soda for Julian.  She drank thirstily and seemed in a few moments to have overcome her fatigue.  She turned to her companion with an air of determination.

“I must speak to you about that packet, Mr. Orden,” she insisted.

“Again?”

“I cannot help it.  You forget that with me it is a matter of life or death.  You must realise that you were only entrusted with it.  You are a man of honour.  Give it to me.”

“I cannot.”

“What are you thinking of doing with it, then?”

“I shall take it to London with me to-morrow,” he replied, “and hand it over to a friend of mine at the Foreign Office.”

“Would nothing that I could do or say,” she asked passionately, “influence your decision?”

“Everything that you do or say interests and affects me,” he answered simply, “but so far as regards this matter, my duty is clear.  You have nothing to fear from my account of how it came into my possession.  It would be impossible for me to denounce you for what I fear you are.  On the other hand, I cannot allow you the fruits of your enterprise.”