"What a rag last night! I didn't get home till three!"

"d.i.c.k never got home at all. Still missing!"

"Evie and I are worn out with shopping. Everything's twice as expensive, but one simply can't do without."

"I shouldn't do without anything, these days. One never knows how long it may last."

The taxicab moved on, and the Bishop's eyes for a moment were half-closed. The voices followed him, however. Two women, leading curled and pampered toy dogs, were talking at the corner of the street.

"Sugar, my dear?" one was saying. "Why, I laid in nearly a hundredweight, and I can always get what I want now. The shopkeepers know that they have to have your custom after the war. It's only the people who can't afford to buy much at a time who are really inconvenienced."

"Of course, it's awfully sad about the war, and all that, but one has to think of oneself. Harry told me last night that after paying all the income tax he couldn't get out of, and excess profits; he is still--"

The voices dropped to a whisper. The Bishop thrust his head out of the window.

"Drive me to Tothill Street, Westminster," he directed. "As quickly as possible, please."

The man turned up a side street and drove off. Still the Bishop watched, only by now the hopefulness had gone from his face. He had sought for something of which there had been no sign.

He dismissed his taxicab in front of a large and newly finished block of buildings in the vicinity of Westminster. A lift man conducted him to the seventh floor, and a commissionaire ushered him into an already crowded waiting room. A youth, however, who had noticed the Bishop's entrance, took him in charge, and, conducting him through two other crowded rooms, knocked reverently at the door of an apartment at the far end of the suite. The door was opened, after a brief delay, by a young man of unpleasant appearance, who gazed suspiciously at the distinguished visitor through heavy spectacles.

"The Bishop wishes to see Mr. Fenn," his guide announced.

"Show him in at once," a voice from the middle of the room directed.

"You can go and have your lunch, Johnson."

The Bishop found himself alone with the man whom he had come to visit,--a moderately tall, thin figure, badly-dressed, with a drooping moustache, bright eyes and good forehead, but peevish expression. He stood up while he shook hands with the Bishop and motioned him to a chair.

"First time you've honoured us, Bishop," he remarked, with the air of one straining after an equality which he was far from feeling.

"I felt an unconquerable impulse to talk with you," the Bishop admitted.

"Tell me your news?"

"Everything progresses," Nicholas Fenn declared confidently. "The last eleven days have seen a social movement in this country, conducted with absolute secrecy, equivalent in its portentous issues to the greatest revolution of modern times. For the first time in history, Bishop, the united voice of the people has a chance of making itself heard."

"Mr. Fenn," the Bishop said, "you have accomplished a wonderful work.

Now comes the moment when we must pause and think. We must be absolutely and entirely certain that the first time that voice is heard it is heard in a righteous cause."

"Is there a more righteous cause in the world than the cause of peace?"

Fenn asked sharply.

"Not if that peace be just and reasonable," the Bishop replied, "not if that peace can bring to an end this horrible and b.l.o.o.d.y struggle."

"We shall see to that," Fenn declared, with a self-satisfied air.

"You have by now, I suppose, the terms proposed by your--your kindred body in Germany?"

Nicholas Fenn stroked his moustache. There was a frown upon his forehead.

"I expect to have them at any moment," he said, "but to tell you the truth, at the present moment they are not available."

"But I thought--"

"Just so," the other interrupted. "The doc.u.ment, however, was not where we expected to find it."

"Surely that is a very serious complication?"

"It will mean a certain delay if we don't succeed in getting hold of it," Fenn admitted. "We intend to be firm about the matter, though."

The Bishop's expression was troubled.

"Julian Orden," he said, "is my G.o.dson."

"Necessity knows neither friendship nor relationship," Fenn p.r.o.nounced didactically. "Better ask no questions, sir. These details do not concern you."

"They concern my conscience," was the grave reply. "Ours is an earnest spiritual effort for peace, a taking away from the hands of the politicians of a great human question which they have proved themselves unable to handle. We should look, therefore, with peculiar care to the means we adopt."

Nicholas Fenn nodded. He lit a very pungent cigarette from a paper packet by his side.

"You and I, Bishop," he said, "are pacifists in the broadest meaning of the word, but that does not mean that we may not sometimes have to use force to attain our object. We have a department which alone is concerned with the dealing of such matters. It is that department which has undertaken the forwarding and receipt of all communications between ourselves and our friends across the North Sea. Its operations are entirely secret, even from the rest of the Council. It will deal with Julian Orden. It is best for you not to interfere, or even to have cognisance of what is going on."

"I cannot agree," the Bishop protested. "An act of unchristian violence would be a flaw in the whole superstructure which we are trying to build up."

"Let us discuss some other subject," Fenn proposed.

"Pardon me," was the firm reply. "I have come here to discuss this one."

Nicholas Fenn looked down at the table. His expression was not altogether pleasant.

"Your position with us, sir," he said, "although much appreciated, does not warrant your interference in executive details."

"Nevertheless," the Bishop insisted, "you must please treat me reasonably in this matter, Mr. Fenn. Remember I am not altogether extinct as a force amongst your followers. I have three ma.s.s meetings to address this week, and there is the sermon next Sunday at Westminster Abbey, at which it has been agreed that I shall strike the first note of warning. I am a helper, I believe, worth considering, and there is no man amongst you who risks what I risk."

"Exactly what are you asking from me?" Fenn demanded, after a moment's deliberation.

"I wish to know the whereabouts and condition of Julian Orden."

"The matter is one which is being dealt with by our secret service department," Fenn replied, "but I see no reason why I should not give you all reasonable information. The young man in question asked for trouble, and to a certain extent he has found it."

"I understand," the Bishop reminded his companion, "that he has very nearly, if not altogether, compromised himself in his efforts to shield Miss Abbeway."

"That may be so," Fenn admitted, "but it doesn't alter the fact that he refuses to return to her the packet which she entrusted to his care."

"And he is still obdurate?"

"Up to now, absolutely so. Perhaps," Fenn added, with a slightly malicious smile, "you would like to try what you can do with him yourself?"

The Bishop hesitated.