“I always liked Julian,” he declared.  “I always believed that he had capacity.  Dear me, though,” he went on, with a whimsical little smile, “what a blow for the Earl!”

Catherine laughed.

“Do you remember the evening we all talked about the Labour question?  Time seems to have moved so rapidly lately, but it was scarcely a week ago.”

“I remember,” the Bishop acknowledged.  “And, my dear young lady,” he went on warmly, “now indeed I feel that I can offer you congratulations which come from my heart.”

She turned a little away.

“Don’t,” she begged.  “You would have known very soon, in any case —­my engagement to Julian Orden was only a pretence.”

“A pretence?”

“I was desperate,” she explained.  “I felt I must have that packet back at any price.  I went to his rooms to try and steal it.  Well, I was found there.  He invented our engagement to help me out.”

“But you went off to London together, the neat day?” the Bishop reminded her.

“It was all part of the game,” she sighed.  “What a fool he must have thought me!  However, I am glad.  I am riotously, madly glad.  I am glad for the cause, I am glad for all our sakes.  We have a great recruit, Bishop, the greatest we could have.  And think!  When he knows the truth, there will be no more trouble.  He will hand us over the packet.  We shall know just where we stand.  We shall know at once whether we dare to strike the great blow.”

“I was down at Westminster this afternoon,” the Bishop told her.  “The whole mechanism of the Council of Labour seems to be complete.  Twenty men control industrial England.  They have absolute power.  They are waiting only for the missing word.  And fancy,” he went on, “to-morrow I was to have visited Julian.  I was to have used my persuasions.”

“But we must go to-night!” Catherine exclaimed.  “There is no reason why we should waste a single second.”

“I shall be only too pleased,” he assented gladly.  “Where is, he?”

Catherine’s face fell.

“I haven’t the least idea,” she confessed.  “Don’t you know?”

The Bishop shook his head.

“They were going to send some one with me tomorrow,” he replied, “but in any case Fenn knows.  We can get at him.”

She made a little wry face.

“I do not like Mr. Fenn,” she said slowly.  “I have disagreed with him.  But that does not matter.  Perhaps we had better go to the Council rooms.  We shall find some of them there, and probably Fenn.  I have a taxi waiting.”

They drove presently to Westminster.  The ground floor of the great building, which was wholly occupied now by the offices of the different Labour men, was mostly in darkness, but on the top floor was a big room used as a club and restaurant, and also for informal meetings.  Six or seven of the twenty-three were there, but not Fenn.  Cross, a great brawny Northumbrian, was playing a game of chess with Furley.  Others were writing letters.  They all turned around at Catherine’s entrance.  She held out her hands to them.