The little company rose to their feet and moved towards the door, exchanging whispered comments concerning the news which Catherine had brought.  She herself crossed the room and confronted Fenn.

“There is still something to be said about that news,” she declared.

Fenn’s attempt at complete candour was only partially convincing.

“There is not the slightest reason,” he declared, “why anything concerning Julian Orden should be concealed from any member of the Council who desires information.  If you will follow me into my private room, Miss Abbeway, and you, Furley, I shall be glad to tell you our exact position.  And if the Bishop will accompany you,” he added, turning to the latter, “I shall be honoured.”

Furley made no reply, but, whispering something in Catherine’s ear, took up his hat and left the room.  The other two, however, took Fenn at his word, followed him into his room, accepted the chairs which he placed for them, and waited while he spoke through a telephone to the private exchange situated in the building.

“They tell me,” he announced, as he laid down the instrument, “that Bright has this moment returned and is now on his way upstairs.”

Catherine shivered.

“Is Mr. Bright that awful-looking person who came to the last Council meeting?”

“He is probably the person you mean,” Fenn assented.  “He takes very little interest in our executive work, but he is one of the most brilliant scientists of this or any other generation.  The Government has already given him three laboratories for his experiments, and nearly every gas that is being used at the Front has been prepared according to his formula.”

“A master of horrors,” the Bishop murmured.

“He looks it,” Catherine whispered under her breath.

There was a knock at the door, a moment or two later, and Bright entered.  He was a little over medium height, with long and lanky figure, a pronounced stoop, and black, curly hair of coarse quality.  His head, which was thrust a little forward, perhaps owing to his short-sightedness, was long, his forehead narrow, his complexion a sort of olive-green.  He wore huge, disfiguring spectacles, and he had the protuberant lips of a negro.  He greeted Catherine and the Bishop absently and seemed to have a grievance against Fenn.

“What is it you want, Nicholas?” he asked impatiently.  “I have some experiments going on in the country and can only spare a minute.”

“The Council has rescinded its instructions with regard to Julian Orden,” Fenn announced, “and is anxious to have him brought before them at once.  As you know, we are for the moment powerless in the matter.  Will you please explain to Miss Abbeway and the Bishop here just what has been done?”

“It seems a waste of time,” Bright replied ill-naturedly, “but here is the story.  Julian Orden left his rooms at a quarter to six on Thursday evening.  He walked down to St. James’s Street and turned into the Park.  Just as he passed the side door of Marlborough House he was attacked by a sudden faintness.”