“But how interesting!  You excite my curiosity.  And must you continue to hold my wrist?”

“Let me pull down the top of this desk, then.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I intend to examine those papers.”

With a quick movement he gained a momentary advantage and shut the desk down.  The key, however, disturbed by the jerk, fell on to the carpet, and Catherine possessed herself of it.  She sprang lightly back from him and pressed the bell.

“D-n you, what are you going to do now?” he demanded.

“You will see,” she replied.  “Don’t come any nearer, or you may find that I can be unpleasant.”

He shrugged his shoulders and waited.  She turned towards the servant who presently appeared.

“Robert,” she said, “will you telephone for me?”

“Certainly, madam,” the man answered.

“Telephone to 1884 Westminster.  Say that you are speaking for Miss Abbeway, and ask Mr. Furley, Mr. Cross, or whoever is there, to come at once to this address.”

“Look here, there’s no sense in that,” Fenn interrupted.

“Will you do as I ask, please, Robert?” she persisted.

The man bowed and left the room.  Fenn strode sulkily back to the desk.

“Very well, then,” he conceded, “I give in.  Give me the key, and I’ll show you the letter.”

“You intend to keep your word?”

“I do,” he assured her.

She held out the key.  He took it, opened the desk, searched amongst the little pile of papers, drew out the half-sheet of notepaper, and handed it to her.

“There you are,” he said, “although if you are really engaged to marry Mr. Julian Orden,” he added, with disagreeable emphasis, “I am surprised that he should have kept such a secret from you.”

She ignored him and started to read the letter, glancing first at the address at the top.  It was from the British Review, and was dated a few days back: 

My dear Orden,

I think it best to let you know, in case you haven’t seen it yourself, that there is a reward of 100 pounds offered by some busybody for the name of the author of the `Paul Fiske’ articles.  Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now, but I feel compelled to warn you that a disclosure is imminent.  Take my advice and accept it with a good grace.  You have established yourself so irrevocably now that the value of your work will not be lessened by the discovery of the fact that you yourself do not belong to the class of whom you have written so brilliantly.

I hope to see you in a few days.

Sincerely,
M. HALKIN.

Even after she had concluded the letter, she still stared at it.  She read again the one conclusive sentence—­“Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now.”  Then she suddenly broke into a laugh which was almost hysterical.

“So this is his hack journalism!” she exclaimed.  “Julian Orden—­ Paul Fiske!”