“I shall be only too pleased,” he assented gladly. “Where is, he?”
Catherine’s face fell.
“I haven’t the least idea,” she confessed. “Don’t you know?”
The Bishop shook his head.
“They were going to send some one with me tomorrow,” he replied, “but in any case Fenn knows. We can get at him.”
She made a little wry face.
“I do not like Mr. Fenn,” she said slowly. “I have disagreed with him. But that does not matter. Perhaps we had better go to the Council rooms. We shall find some of them there, and probably Fenn. I have a taxi waiting.”
They drove presently to Westminster. The ground floor of the great building, which was wholly occupied now by the offices of the different Labour men, was mostly in darkness, but on the top floor was a big room used as a club and restaurant, and also for informal meetings. Six or seven of the twenty-three were there, but not Fenn. Cross, a great brawny Northumbrian, was playing a game of chess with Furley. Others were writing letters. They all turned around at Catherine’s entrance. She held out her hands to them.
“Great news, my friends!” she exclaimed. “Light up the committee room. I want to talk to you.”
Those who were entitled to followed her into the room across the passage. One or two secretaries and a visitor remained outside. Six of them seated themselves at the long table—Phineas Cross, the Northumbrian pitman, Miles Furley, David Sands, representative of a million Yorkshire mill-hands, Thomas Evans, the South Wales miner.