“Fenn and Bright know,” Cross declared.  “It’s Bright’s job.”

“Why is Bright in it?” Catherine asked impatiently.

Cross frowned and puckered up his lips, an odd trick of his when he was displeased.

“Bright represents the workers in chemical factories,” he explained.  “They say that there isn’t a poison in liquid, solid or gas form, that he doesn’t know all about.  Chap who gives me kind of shivers whenever he comes near.  He and Fenn run the secret service branch of the Council.”

“If he knows where Mr. Orden is, couldn’t we send for him at once?” Catherine suggested.

“I’ll go,” Furley volunteered.

He was back in a few minutes.

“Fenn and Bright are both out,” he announced, “and their rooms locked up.  I rang up Fenn’s house, but he hasn’t been back.”

Catherine stamped her foot.  She was on fire with impatience.

“Doesn’t it seem too bad!” she exclaimed.  “If we could only get hold of Julian Orden to-night, if the Bishop and I could talk to him for five minutes, we could have this message for which we have been waiting so long.”

The door was suddenly opened.  Fenn entered and received a little chorus of welcome.  He was wearing a rough black overcoat over his evening clothes, and a black bowler hat.  He advanced to the table with a little familiar swagger.

“Mr. Fenn,” the Bishop said, “we have been awaiting your arrival anxiously.  Tell us, please, where we can find Mr. Julian Orden.”

Fenn gave vent to a half-choked, ironical laugh.

“If you’d asked me an hour ago,” he said, “I should have told you to try Iris Villa, Acacia Road, Hampstead.  I have just come from there.”

“You saw him?” the Bishop enquired.

“That’s just what I did not,” Fenn replied.

“Why not?” Catherine demanded.

“Because he wasn’t there hasn’t been since three o’clock this afternoon.”

“You’ve moved him?” Furley asked eagerly.

“He’s moved himself,” was the grim reply.  “He’s escaped.”

During the brief, spellbound silence which followed his announcement, Fenn advanced slowly into the room.  It chanced that during their informal discussion, the chair at the head of the table had been left unoccupied.  The newcomer hesitated for a single second, then removed his hat, laid it on the floor by his side, and sank into the vacant seat.  He glanced somewhat defiantly towards Catherine.  He seemed to know quite well from whence the challenge of his words would come.

“You tell us,” Catherine said, mastering her emotion with an effort, “that Julian Orden, whom we now know to be `Paul Fiske’, has escaped.  Just what do you mean?”