They finished dinner presently. Fenn looked with admiration at the gold, coroneted case from which Catherine helped herself to one of her tiny cigarettes. He himself lit an American cigarette.
“I had meant, Miss Abbeway,” he confided, leaning towards her, “to suggest a theatre to you to-night—in fact, I looked at some dress circle seats at the Gaiety with a view to purchasing. Another matter has cropped up, however. There is a little business for us to do.”
“Business?” Catherine repeated.
He produced a folded paper from his pocket and passed it across the table. Catherine read it with a slight frown.
“An order entitling the bearer to search Julian Orden’s apartments!” she exclaimed. “We don’t want to search them, do we? Besides, what authority have we?”
“The best,” he answered, tapping with his discoloured forefinger the signature at the foot of the strip of paper.
She examined it with a doubtful frown.
“But how did this come into your possession?” she asked.
He smiled at her in superior fashion.
“By asking for it,” he replied bluntly. “And between you and me, Miss Abbeway, there isn’t much we might ask for that they’d care to refuse us just now.”