“For which, I suppose,” the Bishop interrupted, “you were responsible.”

“I or my deputy,” Bright replied.  “It doesn’t matter which.  He was fortunate enough to be able to hail a passing taxicab and was driven to my house in Hampstead.  He has spent the intervening period, until three o’clock this afternoon, in a small laboratory attached to the premises.”

“A compulsory stay, I presume?” the Bishop ventured.

“A compulsory stay, arranged for under instructions from the Council,” Bright assented, in his hard, rasping voice.  “He has been most of the time under the influence of some new form of anaesthetic gas with which I have been experimenting.  To-night, however, I must have made a mistake in my calculations.  Instead of remaining in a state of coma until midnight, he recovered during my absence and appears to have walked out of the place.”

“You have no idea where he is at the present moment, then?” Catherine asked.

“Not the slightest,” Bright assured her.  “I only know that he left the place without hat, gloves, or walking stick.  Otherwise, he was fully dressed, and no doubt had plenty of money in his pocket.”

“Is he likely to have any return of the indisposition from which, owing to your efforts, he has been suffering?” the Bishop enquired.

“I should say not,” was the curt answer.  “He may find his memory somewhat affected temporarily.  He ought to be able to find his way home, though.  If not, I suppose you’ll hear of him through the police courts or a hospital.  Nothing that we have done,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “is likely to affect his health permanently in the slightest degree.”

“You now know all that there is to be known, Miss Abbeway,” Fenn said.  “I agree with you that it is highly desirable that Mr. Orden should be found at once, and if you can suggest any way in which I might be of assistance in discovering his present whereabouts, I shall be only too glad to help.  For instance, would you like me to telephone to his rooms?”

Catherine rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Mr. Fenn,” she said, “I don’t think that we will trouble you.  Mr. Furley is making enquiries both at Mr. Orden’s rooms and at his clubs.”

“You are perfectly satisfied, so far as I am concerned, I trust?” he persisted, as he opened the door for them.

“Perfectly satisfied,” Catherine replied, looking him in the face, “that you have told us as much as you choose to for the present.”

Fenn closed the door behind Catherine and the Bishop and turned back into the room.  Bright laughed at him unpleasantly.

“Love affair not going so strong, eh?”

Fenn threw himself into his chair, took a cigarette from a paper packet, and lit it.

“Blast Julian Orden!” he muttered.

“No objection,” his friend yawned.  “What’s wrong now?”

“Haven’t you heard the news?  It seems he’s the fellow who has been writing those articles on Socialism and Labour, signing them `Paul Fiske.’  Idealistic rubbish, but of course the Bishop and his lot are raving about him.”