men control industrial England. They have absolute power. They are
waiting only for the missing word. And fancy," he went on, "to-morrow I
was to have visited Julian. I was to have used my persuasions."

"But we must go to-night!" Catherine exclaimed. "There is no reason why
we should waste a single second."

"I shall be only too pleased," he assented gladly. "Where is, he?"

Catherine's face fell.

"I haven't the least idea," she confessed. "Don't you know?"

The Bishop shook his head.

"They were going to send some one with me tomorrow," he replied, "but in
any case Fenn knows. We can get at him."

She made a little wry face.

"I do not like Mr. Fenn," she said slowly. "I have disagreed with him.
But that does not matter. Perhaps we had better go to the Council rooms.
We shall find some of them there, and probably Fenn. I have a taxi
waiting."

They drove presently to Westminster. The ground floor of the great
building, which was wholly occupied now by the offices of the different
Labour men, was mostly in darkness, but on the top floor was a big room
used as a club and restaurant, and also for informal meetings. Six
or seven of the twenty-three were there, but not Fenn. Cross, a great
brawny Northumbrian, was playing a game of chess with Furley. Others
were writing letters. They all turned around at Catherine's entrance.
She held out her hands to them.

"Great news, my friends!" she exclaimed. "Light up the committee room. I
want to talk to you."

Those who were entitled to followed her into the room across the
passage. One or two secretaries and a visitor remained outside. Six
of them seated themselves at the long table--Phineas Cross, the
Northumbrian pitman, Miles Furley, David Sands, representative of a
million Yorkshire mill-hands, Thomas Evans, the South Wales miner.

"We got a message from you, Miss Abbeway, a little time ago," Furley
remarked. "It was countermanded, though, just as we were ready to
start."

"Yes!" she assented. "I am sorry. I telephoned from Julian Orden's
rooms. It was there we made the great discovery. Listen, all of you! I
have discovered the identity of Paul Fiske."

There was a little clamour of voices. The interest was indescribable.
Paul Fiske was their cult, their master, their undeniable prophet. It
was he who had set down in letters of fire the truths which had been
struggling for imperfect expression in these men's minds. It was Paul
Fiske who had fired them wit