“The Russian young person—Miss Abbeway, she calls herself. Fenn’s been her lap-dog round here—takes her out to dine and that. It’s just a word of warning, that’s all. You’re new amongst us, Mr. Orden, and you might think us all honest men. Well, we ain’t; that’s all there is to it.”
Julian recovered from a momentary fit of astonishment.
“I am much obliged to you for your candour, Mr. Cross,” he said.
“And never you mind about the ‘Mr.’, sir,” the Northumbrian begged.
“Nor you about the ‘sir’,” Julian retorted, with a smile.
“Middle stump,” Cross acknowledged. “And since we are on the subject, my new friend, let me tell you this. To feel perfectly happy about this Council, there’s just three as I should like to see out of it—Fenn, Bright—and the young lady.”
“Why the young lady?” Julian asked quickly.
“You might as well ask me, ‘Why Fenn and Bright?’” the other replied. “I shouldn’t make no answer. We’re superstitious, you know, we north country folk, and we are all for instincts. All I can say to you is that there isn’t one of those three I’d trust around the corner.”
“Miss Abbeway is surely above suspicion?” Julian protested. “She has given up a great position and devoted the greater part of her fortune towards the causes which you and I and all of us are working for.”
“There’d be plenty of work for her in Russia just now,” Cross observed.