“There is no change in the fellow’s attitude. I don’t imagine there will be until the last moment. He is just a pig-headed, insufferably conceited Englishman, full of class prejudices to his finger tips.”
“He is nevertheless a man,” she said thoughtfully. “I heard only yesterday that he earned considerable distinction even in his brief soldiering.”
“No doubt,” Fenn remarked, without enthusiasm, “he has the bravery of an animal. By the bye, the Bishop dropped in to see me this morning.”
“Really?” she asked. “What did he want?”
“Just a personal call,” was the elaborately careless reply. “He likes to look in for a chat, now and then. He spoke about Orden, too. I persuaded him that if we don’t succeed within the next twenty four hours, it will be his duty to see what he can do.”
“Oh, but that was too bad!” she declared. “You know how he feels his position, poor man. He will simply loathe having to tell Julian—Mr. Orden, I mean that he is connected with—”
“Well, with what, Miss Abbeway?”
“With anything in the nature of a conspiracy. Of course, Mr. Orden wouldn’t understand. How could he? I think it was cruel to bring the Bishop into the matter at all.”
“Nothing,” Fenn pronounced, “is cruel that helps the cause. What will you drink, Miss Abbeway? You’ll have some champagne, won’t you?”
“What a horrible idea!” she exclaimed, smiling at him nevertheless. “Fancy a great Labour leader suggesting such a thing! No, I’ll have some light French wine, thank you.”