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Updated: July 28, 2025
Every one has two votes, which must be for two different representatives. The cards should then be folded, and I propose that the Bishop, who is not a candidate, collect them. As I read the unwritten rules of this Congress, every one here is eligible except the Bishop, Miss Abbeway, Mr. Orden and Mr. Furley." There was a little murmur. Phineas Cross leaned forward in his place.
Furley, broad-shouldered, florid, with tanned skin and grizzled hair, was still wearing the high sea boots and jersey of the duck shooter. His companion, on the other hand, a tall, slim man, with high forehead, clear eyes, stubborn jaw, and straight yet sensitive mouth, wore the ordinary dinner clothes of civilisation.
When he spoke, all the vigour had left his tone. "You'll have to let me think about this for a moment, Julian," he said. "Take your own time. I only want an explanation." Furley recovered himself slowly. He stretched out his hand towards the pipe rack, filled another pipe and lit it. Then he began. "Julian," he said, "every word that I have spoken to you about the night before last is the truth.
Finally, he decided that his investigations were leading him in a most undesirable direction. He turned back, walked across the marshes, where he found nothing to disturb him, and lunched with Furley, whose leg was now so much better that he was able to put it to the ground. "What about this visitor of yours?" Julian asked, as they sat smoking afterwards.
We're right, Julian. We must be right!" "It's a ghastly responsibility. I wonder what history will have to say." "That's the worst of it," Furley groaned. "They'll have a bird's-eye view of the whole affair, those people who write our requiem or our eulogy. You noticed the Press this morning? They're all hinting at some great move in the West. It's about in the clubs.
"What does that mean?" Julian enquired curiously. "Something supposed to be up," was the dubious reply. "We've a very imaginative chief, I might tell you." "But what sort of thing could happen?" Julian persisted. "What are you out to prevent, anyway?" Furley relit his pipe, thrust a flask into his pocket, and picked up a thick stick from a corner of the room. "Can't tell," he replied laconically.
"You're not a great talker yourself," the younger man reminded his host. "When you get me going on my own subject," Furley remarked, "I find it hard to stop, and you are a wonderful listener. Have you got any views of your own? I never hear them." Julian drew the box of cigarettes towards him. "Oh, yes, I've views of my own," he confessed. "Some day, perhaps, you shall know what they are."
"Julian Orden," Fenn replied, "has been handed over to our secret service by the unanimous vote of the Council. We have absolute liberty to deal with him as we think fit." "Have you liberty to tell lies as to his whereabouts?" Catherine demanded. "You deliberately told the Council he had escaped, yet, entirely owing to Mr. Furley, I find you down here at Bermondsey with him.
"We've another batch of visitors coming, Stenson amongst them, by the bye." Furley nodded. His eyes narrowed, and little lines appeared at their corners. "I can't imagine," he confessed. "What brings Stenson down to Maltenby. I should have thought that your governor and he could scarcely spend ten minutes together without quarrelling!"
"Freistner guarantees them, and Freistner is our friend, the friend and champion of Labour throughout the world. To attempt to deceive us would be to cover himself with eternal obloquy." "Yet these terms," Julian pointed out, "differ fundamentally from anything which Germany has yet allowed to be made public." "There are two factors here which may be considered," Miles Furley intervened.
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