“That is only because you do not understand,” Catherine assured him. “Listen, and you shall hear the whole truth. I will tell you what is inside that packet and whose signatures you will find there.”
Julian gripped her wrist suddenly. His eyes were filled with a new fear. He was watching the two men, who were whispering together.
“Catherine,” he exclaimed warningly, “look out! These men mean mischief. That devil Bright invents a new poisonous gas every day. Look at Fenn buckling on his mask. Quick! Get out if you can!”
Catherine’s hand touched her bosom. Bright sprang towards her, but he was too late. She raised a little gold whistle to her lips, and its pealing summons rang through the room. Fenn dropped his mask and glanced towards Bright. His face was livid.
“Who’s outside?” he demanded.
“The Bishop and Mr. Furley. Great though my confidence is in you both, I scarcely ventured to come here alone.”
The approaching footsteps were plainly audible. Fenn shrugged his shoulders with a desperate attempt at carelessness.
“I don’t know what is in your mind, Miss Abbeway,” he said. “You can scarcely believe that you, at any rate, were in danger at our hands.”
“I would not trust you a yard,” she replied fiercely. “In any case, it is better that the others should come. Mr. Orden might not believe me. He will at least believe the Bishop.”
“Believe whom?” Julian demanded.