“If the terms offered,” the Bishop pointed out, “are anything like what we expect, they are better than any which the politicians could ever have mooted, even after years more of bloodshed.  It is my opinion that Stenson will welcome them, and that the country, generally speaking, will be entirely in favour of their acceptance.”

“Supposing,” Julian asked, “that you think them reasonable, that you make your demand to the Prime Minister, and he refuses.  What then?”

“That,” Fenn intervened, with the officious air of one who has been left out of the conversation far too long, “is where we come in.  At our word, every coal pit in England would cease work, every furnace fire would go out, every factory would stand empty.  The trains would remain on their sidings, or wherever they might chance to be when the edict was pronounced.  The same with the ’buses and cabs, the same with the Underground.  Not a ship would leave any port in the United Kingdom, not a ship would be docked.  Forty-eight hours of this would do more harm than a year’s civil war.  Forty-eight hours must procure from the Prime Minister absolute submission to our demands.  Ours is the greatest power the world has ever evolved.  We shall use it for the greatest cause the world has ever known—­the cause of peace.”

“This, in a way, was inevitable,” Julian observed.  “You remember the conversation, Bishop,” he added, “down at Maltenby?”

“Very well indeed,” the latter acquiesced.

“The country went into slavery,” Julian pronounced, “in August, 1915.  That slavery may or may not be good for them.  To be frank, I think it depends entirely upon the constitution of your Council.  It is so much to the good, Bishop, that you are there.”

“Our Council, such as it is,” Fenn remarked acidly, “consists of men elected to their position by the votes of a good many millions of their fellow toilers.”

“The people may have chosen wisely,” was the grave reply, “or they may have made mistakes.  Such things have been known.  By the bye, I suppose that my durance is at an end?”

“It is at an end, whichever way you decide,” Catherine declared.  “Now that you know everything, though, you will not hesitate to give up the packet?”

“You shall have it,” he agreed.  “I will give it back into your hands.”

“The sooner the better!” Fenn exclaimed eagerly.  “And, Mr. Orden, one word.”

Julian was standing amongst them now, very drawn and pale in the dim halo of light thrown down from the hanging lamp.  His answering monosyllable was cold and restrained.

“Well?”

“I trust you will understand,” Fenn continued, “that Bright and I were simply carrying out orders.  To us you were an enemy.  You had betrayed the trust of one of our members.  The prompt delivery of that packet meant the salvation of thousands of lives.  It meant a cessation of this ghastly world tragedy.  We were harsh, perhaps, but we acted according to orders.”