The door was suddenly opened. Fenn entered and received a little chorus of welcome. He was wearing a rough black overcoat over his evening clothes, and a black bowler hat. He advanced to the table with a little familiar swagger.
“Mr. Fenn,” the Bishop said, “we have been awaiting your arrival anxiously. Tell us, please, where we can find Mr. Julian Orden.”
Fenn gave vent to a half-choked, ironical laugh.
“If you’d asked me an hour ago,” he said, “I should have told you to try Iris Villa, Acacia Road, Hampstead. I have just come from there.”
“You saw him?” the Bishop enquired.
“That’s just what I did not,” Fenn replied.
“Why not?” Catherine demanded.
“Because he wasn’t there, hasn’t been since three o’clock this afternoon.”
“You’ve moved him?” Furley asked eagerly.
“He’s moved himself,” was the grim reply. “He’s escaped.”