"You'd imagine wrong, then."

"But how interesting! You excite my curiosity. And must you continue to
hold my wrist?"

"Let me pull down the top of this desk, then."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I intend to examine those papers."

With a quick movement he gained a momentary advantage and shut the desk
down. The key, however, disturbed by the jerk, fell on to the carpet,
and Catherine possessed herself of it. She sprang lightly back from him
and pressed the bell.

"D----n you, what are you going to do now?" he demanded.

"You will see," she replied. "Don't come any nearer, or you may find
that I can be unpleasant."

He shrugged his shoulders and waited. She turned towards the servant who
presently appeared.

"Robert," she said, "will you telephone for me?"

"Certainly, madam," the man answered.

"Telephone to 1884 Westminster. Say that you are speaking for Miss
Abbeway, and ask Mr. Furley, Mr. Cross, or whoever is there, to come at
once to this address."

"Look here, there's no sense in that," Fenn interrupted.

"Will you do as I ask, please, Robert?" she persisted.

The man bowed and left the room. Fenn strode sulkily back to the desk.

"Very well, then," he conceded, "I give in. Give me the key, and I'll
show you the letter."

"You intend to keep your word?"

"I do," he assured her.

She held out the key. He took it, opened the desk, searched amongst the
little pile of papers, drew out the half-sheet of notepaper, and handed
it to her.

"There you are," he said, "although if you are really engaged to marry
Mr. Julian Orden," he added, with disagreeable emphasis, "I am surprised
that he should have kept such a secret from you."

She ignored him and started to read the letter, glancing first at the
address at the top. It was from the British Review, and was dated a few
days back:

My dear Orden,

I think it best to let you know, in case you haven't seen it yourself,
that there is a reward of 100 pounds offered by some busybody for the
name of the author of the `Paul Fiske' articles. Your anonymity has been
splendidly preserved up till now, but I feel compelled to warn you
that a disclosure is imminent. Take my advice and accept it with a good
grace. You have established yourself so irrevocably now that the value
of your work will not be lessened by the discovery of the fact that
you yourself do not belong to the class of whom you have written so
brilliantly.

I hope to see you in a few days.