The Profiteers/Part 3

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Illustration: The terrified man made an ineffectual dash for the door. You mean to make me a prisoner in my own house?” he shouted, as he found himself in the clutches of one of the footmen.

 

When Mr. Oppenheim wrote “The Great Impersonation,” it was regarded as his greatest work. But this story of the New Yorker, Wingate, who has gone to London to prevent his old enemy, Phipps, gaining control of the world's wheat supply, and who finds himself involved in life's great adventure, is even more fascinating.

 

XX

THE arrival of Josephine affected very differently the three men, to whom her coming was equally surprising. Her husband stared at her with a doubtful and malicious frown upon his forehead. With Wingate, she exchanged one swift glance of mutual understanding. Phipps, after his first start of surprise, welcomed her with the utmost respect and cordiality.

“My dear Lady Dredlinton,” he declared, “this is charming of you! I had given up hoping that you would ever honor us——”

“You can chuck all that, Phipps,” Dredlinton interrupted curtly. “My wife hasn't come here to bandy civilities. What do you want, madam?”

Josephine held a slip of paper in her hand.

“I have come to let Mr. Wingate know the contents of this cable, which arrived soon after my husband left the house this morning,” she said. “The message was in code, but, as Mr. Wingate's name appeared, I have taken the trouble to transcribe it.”

“That's more than you could do, my lady,” Dredlinton snarled.

“I can assure you that you are mistaken,” was the calm reply. “You forget that you were not quite yourself last night, and that you left the B. & I. code-book on the study table.”

All the apparent good humor had faded from Phipps' face.

“Dredlinton,” he insisted, “you must use your authority. That message is a private one. It must not be read.”

Dredlinton moved to Josephine's side.

“Give me that message, madam,” he demanded.

He snatched at it. Wingate reached over and swung him to one side.

“Let Lady Dredlinton read the cable,” he said.

“It is a night message from New York,” she said. “Listen: 'Confirm eleven steamers Monarch Line withdrawn Japan trade loading secretly huge wheat cargo for Liverpool. Confirm John Wingate, Milan Court, holds controlling influence. Advise buy his shares any price.'”

There was a moment's intense silence. Phipps was exhibiting remarkable self-control. His tone, as he addressed Wingate, was grave but almost natural.

“Under these circumstances, do you wish to repudiate your bargain?” he asked. “We must at least know where we are.”

Wingate turned to Josephine.

“The matter,” he decided, “is not in my hands. Lady Dredlinton, the person who opened the door of my sitting-room last night was Miss Flossie Lane, a musical-comedy actress sent there by your husband, who had followed you to the Milan. Your husband imagines that, because you were in my apartments at such an unusual hour, he has cause for divorce. That I do not believe, but, to save proceedings which might be distasteful to you, I was prepared to sell Mr. Phipps my shares in the Monarch Line, imagining it to be an ordinary business transaction. The cable which you have just read has revealed the true reason why Phipps desires to acquire those shares. The arrival of that wheat will force down prices, for a time, at any rate. It may even drive this accursed company into seeking some other field of speculation. What shall I do?”

She smiled at him over her husband's head.

“You must, of course, keep your shares,” she declared. “As regards the other matter, my husband can do as he thinks well.”

Wingate's eyes flashed his thanks. He drew a little sigh of relief, and deliberately tore the agreement which he had been holding in half. Dredlinton leaned over the desk and snatched at the telephone-receiver.

“My God, then,” he exclaimed furiously, “I'll keep my word! Mayfair six-seven. I'll drag you through the dust, my lady,” he went on.

Phipps shook his head sorrowfully.

“My friend,” he said, “put down the telephone. Let us talk the matter out squarely.”

“No!” Dredlinton shouted. “You are too much out for compromises, Phipps. There are times when one must strike.... Exchange! I say, Exchange! Why the devil can't you give me Mayfair six-seven.... What's that?... An urgent call?... Well, go on, then. Out with it. Who's speaking?... Mr. Stanley Rees's servant?... Yes, yes! I'm Lord Dredlinton. Get on with it.”

There was a moment of intense silence. Presently he laid down the receiver. He turned very slowly round.

“Stanley has disappeared!” he gasped. “He had one of those letters last night. It lies on his table now, his servant says. There was a noise in his room at four o'clock this morning. When they called him—he had gone.”

“'Stanley disappeared?'” Phipps repeated, in a dazed tone.

“There's been foul play!” Dredlinton cried hoarsely. “His servant is sure of it.”

Wingate picked up his hat and stick and moved toward the door. From the threshold he looked back, waiting while Josephine joined him.

“Youth,” he said calmly, “must be served. Stanley Rees was, I believe, the youngest director on the board of the British & Imperial Granaries. Now, if you like, Mr. Phipps, I'll come on to your market. I'm a seller of a hundred thousand bushels of wheat at to-day's price.”

XXI

Roger Kendrick was in and disengaged when Wingate called upon him a few minutes later. He welcomed his visitor cordially.

“That was a pretty good list you gave me the other day, Wingate,” he remarked. “You've made money.”

“Good!” Wingate commented. “I dare say I shall need it all. Close up everything, Kendrick. Take profits and close up. I've another commission for you.”

“One moment, then.”

Kendrick hurried into the outer office and gave some brief instructions. His client picked up the tape and studied it until his return.

“How are things?” Wingate inquired, as he resumed his seat.

“Uneasy,” Kendrick replied. “B. & I.'s are the chief feature. They show signs of weakness, owing to the questions in the House of Commons last night.”

“I'm a bear on B. & I.'s,” Wingate; declared. “What are they to-day?”

They opened at five and a quarter. Half-an-hour ago, they were being offered at five and an eighth.”

“Very well,” Wingate replied, “sell.”

“How many?”

“No limit. Simply sell.”

The broker was a little startled.

“Do you know anything?” he asked.

“The price of wheat is coming down within the next ten days,” Wingate announced; “so are the B.& I. shares. I'm not giving you verbal orders. Here's your warrant.”

He drew a sheet of note-paper toward him and wrote a few lines upon it. Kendrick blotted and laid a paper-weight upon it.

“That's one of the biggest things I've ever taken on for a client, Wingate,” he said. “You won't mind if I venture upon one last word?”

“Not I,” was the cheerful reply. “Go right ahead.”

“You're sure that Phipps hasn't drawn you into this?”

Wingate smiled.

“Don't you worry about me, Ken,” he begged. “I'm out to break Phipps, and I rather think this time I'm going to do it. Come along to the Milan, later on, and lunch. Lady Amesbury and Sarah Baldwin and a few others are coming.”

Illustration: Josephine held a slip of paper in her hand. “I have come to let Mr. Wingate know the contents of this cable.”

“Lady Dredlinton, by any chance?” Kendrick asked.

“Lady Dredlinton, certainly.”

“I'll turn up soon after one. And, Wingate, don't think I'm a croaker, but I know Peter Phipps.”

 

Wingate's luncheon-party had been arranged for some days, and was being given, in fact, at the suggestion of Lady Amesbury herself.

“I am a perfectly shameless person,” she declared, as she took her seat by Wingate's side at the round table in the middle of the restaurant. “I invited myself to this party. I always do. I do love lunching in a restaurant,” she confided to Kendrick, who sat at her other side.

“Have you heard the news about Jimmy, aunt?” Sarah asked across the table. “The dear boy's gone into the City.”

“God bless my soul!” Lady Amesbury exclaimed. “How much has he got to lose?”

“He isn't going to lose anything,” Sarah replied. “Mr. Maurice White has taken him into his office, and he's going to have a commission on the business he does. He must be busy, or he'd have been here before now. Jimmy's never late for meals.”

The subject of the discussion now approached the table. Sarah welcomed him with a wave of her hand. The Honorable Jimmy greeted Lady Amesbury and his host, nodded to every one else. and took the vacant place which had been left for him. He seemed fatigued.

“May I have a cocktail, Mr. Wingate?” he begged, summoning a waiter. “A double Martini, please. Big things doing in the City,” he confided.

“Have you had to work very hard, dear?” Sarah asked sympathetically. He nodded.

“Absolutely feverish rush ever since I got there,” he declared. “Don't know how long my nerves will stand it.”

“Have you gotten any commissions yet?” Sarah went on.

“Well, not exactly,” Jimmy confessed. “About half-an-hour before I left, a lunatic, with perspiration streaming down his face and no hat, threw himself into my room. 'I'll buy B. & I.'s!' he shouted. 'I'll buy B. & I.'s'”

“What did you do?” Wingate inquired, with interest.

“I told him I hadn't got any,” was the injured reply. “He went out like a streak of damp lightning.”

“Jimmy,” Sarah said reproachfully, “that might have been your first client. “You ought to have found him some B. & I.'s.”

“Distinct lack of enterprise,” Kendrick put in. “You should have thrown yourself on the telephone and asked me if I'd got a few.”

“Never thought of it,” Jimmy confessed. “Live and learn.”

The manager of the restaurant, on his way through the room, recognized Wingate and came to pay his respects.

“Did you hear about the little trouble over in the Court, Mr. Wingate?” he inquired.

“No; I haven't heard anything,” Wingate replied.

They all leaned a little forward. The manager included them in his confidence.

“The young gentleman—you probably know him, Mr. Wingate,” he said; “he has the suite just underneath yours—Mr. Stanley Rees, his name is, disappeared last night.”

“'Stanley Rees?'” Kendrick exclaimed.

The manager nodded.

“He is a nephew of Mr. Peter Phipps. It seems he dressed for dinner, came down to the bar to have a cocktail, leaving his coat and hat and scarf up in his room and telling his valet that he would return for them in ten minutes. He hasn't been seen or heard of since——”

The manager was called away. Kendrick became thoughtful.

“Queer thing,” he remarked, “that young Rees should have disappeared just as the B. & I. has become a feature on 'Change. He was Phipps' right-hand man in finance matters.”

“Disappearances in London seem a little out of date,” Wingate remarked, as he scrutinized the dish which the maître d'hôtel had brought for his inspection. “The missing person generally turns up and curses the scaremonger. Lady Amesbury, this chicken Maryland is one of our favorite American dishes——”

 

After his guests had departed, Wingate had a few minutes alone with Josephine.

“I hate letting you go back to that house,” he admitted.

She laughed softly.

“Why, my dear,” she said, “think how necessary it is! For the first time in my life, I am absolutely looking forward to it. I never thought that I should live to associate romance with that ugly brownstone building.”

If there's the slightest hitch you'll let me hear, won't you?” he begged,

“Pooh!” she scoffed. “Nothing will happen. You are invincible, John. You will conquer with these men, as you have poor me.”

“You have no regrets?” he asked, as they moved through the hall on the way out.

“I regret nothing,” she answered fervently. “I never shall.”

Illustration: Josephine placed her hand in his. “I shall never know what happiness is,” she declared, “until I have left this house—never to return. “That will not be long,” Wingate reminded her gravely.

XXII

Wingate, after several strenuous hours spent in Slate's office returned to his rooms late that night to find Peter Phipps awaiting him. He paused on the threshold of the room, and his hand crept into his pocket. Phipps noticed the gesture.

“Nothing quite so crude, Wingate,” he said. “I wasn't thinking of getting rid of you that way.”

“I have found it necessary,” Wingate remarked slowly, “to be prepared for all sorts of tricks when I am up against you. I don't want you here, Phipps. I've nothing to discuss with you.”

“I have come to know your terms,” Phipps said.

Wingate shook his head.

“I don't understand. You are not beaten yet.”

“I am tired,” his visitor muttered. “May I sit down?”

“Sit if you will. Then say what you have to say and go.”

Phipps sank into an easy chair.

“I have been down below in Stanley's rooms,” he explained, “been through his papers. There isn't a scrap of evidence of any complication in his life. There isn't a shadow of doubt in my mind as to the cause of his disappearance.”

“Indeed!” Wingate murmured.

“It's a villainous plot, engineered by you!” Phipps continued, his voice shaking. “I'm fond of the boy. That's why I've come to you. Name your terms.”

“And why do you connect me with his disappearance?”

Phipps gave a little weary gesture.

“I am so sick of words,” he said.

Wingate nodded.

“We will argue the matter, then, from your point of view. Supposing that your nephew has been abducted and is held at the present moment as a hostage. It would be, without doubt, by some person or persons who resented the brutality, the dishonesty, the foul commercial methods of the company with which he was connected. An amendment of those methods might produce his release.”

“And that amendment?”

“Your operations in wheat,” Wingate replied, “have brought the loaf which should cost the working man. a matter of seven pence up to two shillings. If you were to sell wheat at forty-five per cent. less than to-day's, price, I should think it extremely likely that Stanley Rees would be able to dine with you to-morrow night.”

“You are talking like a madman,” Phipps declared. “It would mean ruin.”

“How sad!” Wingate murmured. “All the same. I do not think that you will see your nephew again until you have sold wheat.”

“You admit that you are responsible, then?” Phipps growled.

“I admit nothing of the sort. I am simply speculating as to the possible cause of his disappearance. If I had anything to do with it, those would be my terms. To-morrow they might be the same: perhaps the next day. But,” he went on, “the day after would probably be too late. There are a great many hungry people in the North. There is one in London who is beginning to feel the pangs.”

“You are ill-treating him!” Phipps cried passionately. “I shall go to Scotland Yard——”

“My dear fellow,” Wingate scoffed. “you have done that already. You have induced those very excellent upholders of British law and liberty to set a plain-clothes man following me about. I can assure you that he has had a very pleasant and a very busy evening.”

Phipps rose to his feet.

“You are a conspirator—a criminal! I shall see that you are in jail before the week is out!” he cried.

“A good deal of what you say is true,” Wingate admitted “with the possible exception of the latter part. Believe me, Pete Phipps, you are a great deal more likely to see the inside of a prison than I am. You will be a poor man presently, and poor men of your type are desperate.”

Phipps remained perfectly silent for several moments.

“Wingate,” he said, at last, “will you treat?”

“I have named the price.”

“You are a fool!” Phipps almost shouted. “Do you know that what you suggest would cost five million pounds? That would make a bankrupt of me.”

“Why not?” Wingate replied. “It's been a long duel between us, Phipps, and I mean this to be the final bout.”

Phipps was keeping himself under control.

“Tell me, Wingate, is it still the girl?”

Wingate looked across at him, his eyes like points of steel.

“You did ill to remind me of that, Phipps,” he said. “However, I will answer your question. It is still the girl.”

Illustration: Dredlinton had fallen with his head and shoulders upon the table. Phipps was sitting bolt upright. Rees was leaning far back in his chair. His fingers clenched round the butt of his pistol. Wingate rose to his feet.

“She was nothing to you,” Phipps muttered.

“One can't make your class of reptile understand these things, Wingate declared scornfully. “She came to me in New York with a letter from her father, my old tutor, who had died in the Adirondacks without a shilling in the world. He sent the girl to me and asked me to put her in the way of earning her own living. It was a sacred charge, that, and I accepted it willingly. The only trouble was that I was leaving for Europe the next day. I put a thousand dollars in the bank for her, found her a comfortable home with respectable people, and then considered in what office I could place her during my absence. I had the misfortune to meet you that morning. I told you her story, and you took her. I hadn't an idea that a man alive could be such a villain as you turned out to be.”

“You'd be a fine fellow, Wingate,” Phipps said, with a touch of his old cynicism, “if you weren't always, sheering off toward the melodramatic. The girl wanted to see life; she attracted me, and I showed it to her. I'd have done the right thing by her if she hadn't behaved like an hysterical idiot.”

“The girl's death lies at your door, and you know it,” Wingate replied. “It has taken me a good many years to pay my debt to the dead. I did my best to kill you, but without a weapon you were a hard man to shake the last spark of life out of— There, I am tired of this. Be so good as to leave me.”

The shadow of impending disaster seemed to have found its way into Phipps' bones.

“Look here,” he said: “The rest of the things which lie between us we can fight out, but I want my nephew. What will his return cost me in hard cash between you and me?”

“The cost of bringing wheat down to its normal figure.”

“I couldn't do it if I would,” Phipps argued. “There's Skinflint Martin—he won't part with a bushel. I'm not alone in this. Come; I have my check-book in my pocket. You can fight the B. I. to the death, if you will—but I want my nephew.”

Wingate threw open the door.

“There was a girl once,” he reminded him, “my ward, who drowned herself. To hell with your nephew, Phipps!”

Passion for a moment made once more a man of Phipps. His eyes blazed.

“And to hell with you—hypocrite—adulterer!” he shouted.

Wingate's fist missed the point of his adversary's chin by less than a thought. Phipps went staggering back through the open door into the corridor, and stood leaning against the wall, half dazed, his hand to his cheek. Wingate looked at him contemptuously.

“Get home to your kennel, Phipps,” he ordered.

Then he slammed the door and locked it.

XXIII

“Another strange face,” Sarah remarked, looking after the butler who had just brought in the coffee. “I thought you were one of those women, Josephine, who always keep their servants.”

Josephine stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

“Henry has been having one of his bad weeks,” she said. “He has been absolutely impossible to everyone. He threatened to give every servant in the house notice the other day because his bell wasn't answered, so I took him at his word. We've no one left except the cook, and she declined to go. She has been with us ever since we were married. All the same, I wouldn't have had anyone but you and Jimmy to dinner to-night. I wasn't at all sure how things would turn out. Besides, it isn't everyone I'd care to ask into this dungeon of a room.”

“I was wondering why we were here, Josephine,” Sarah remarked, looking round her. “It used to be one of your hospital-rooms, surely?”

“The other rooms want turning out, dear. I knew you wouldn't mind.”

There are women as well as men who have learned the art of a sociable silence. Josephine and Sarah finished their cigarettes and their coffee in a condition of reflective ease. Then Sarah stood up and straightened her hair in front of the mirror.

“Josephine,” she announced, “I am going to marry Jimmy.”

“You have really made up your minds at last, then?”

“My dear,” Sarah declared, “we've come to the conclusion that we can't afford to remain single any longer. We are both spending far too much money.”

“Tam sure I wish you luck,” Josephine said earnestly.

“Of course”—Sarah sighed—“I hate giving up my profession, but there is a sort of monotony about it when Jimmy insists upon being my only fare.”

“Is this the reason why Jimmy is making his great début as a man of affairs?” Josephine asked.

“Not exactly,” Sarah replied. “As a matter of fact, that was rather a bluff. His mother is so afraid of his starting in some business where they'll get him to put some money in that she has agreed to allow him a couple of thousand a year until he comes in for his property, on condition that he clears out of the City altogether.”

“That seems quite decent of her. Where are you going to live?”

“In the bailiff's cottage on the Longmere estate, which will come to Jimmy some day. Jimmy is going to take an interest in farming. So long as it isn't his own farm, his mother thinks that won't hurt.”

Josephine laughed softly.

“A bright old lady, his mother, I should think.”

“Well, she has had the good sense to realize at last that I am the only person likely to keep Jimmy out of mischief.”

She rose suddenly to her feet, crossed the little space between them, and crouched on the floor by her friend's chair.

“You've been such a brick to me, dear,” she declared, looking up at her fondly, “and I feel a perfect beast being so happy all the time.”

Josephine let her fingers rest on the strands of soft, wavy hair.

“Don't be absurd, Sarah,” she remonstrated. “Besides, things haven't been quite so bad with me lately.”

“You look different, somehow,” her guest admitted.

“There is just one thing which does make a real change in a woman's life,” Josephine declared, her voice trembling for a moment, “and that is when she finds that it really makes a difference to some one whether she's miserable or not.”

Sarah nodded appreciatively.

“I know you think I am only a shallow, outrageous little flirt sometimes, Josephine,” she said, “but I am not. I do know what you mean. Only, I don't think you help yourself to as much happiness from that knowledge as you ought to, as you have a right to.”

“What do you mean?” Josephine demanded half fearfully.

“Just what I say. I think he is simply splendid, and if anyone cared for me as much as he does for you, I'd——”

She stopped short and looked toward the door. Jimmy was peering in, and behind him Lord Dredlinton.

“Eh—what's that, Sarah?” the former demanded. “You'd what?”

Sarah rose to her feet and resumed her place in her chair.

“I was trying to pull Josephine down from the clouds,” she remarked.

Lord Dredlinton smiled across at her. There was an unpleasant significance in his tone.

“It can be done, my dear young lady,” he said, “but I am not sure that you are the right person to do it.”

The shadow had fallen once more upon Josephine's face. She had become cold and indifferent. She ignored her husband's words. Lord Dredlinton was looking round him in disgust.

“What on earth are we in this mausoleum for?” he demanded.

“Domestic reasons,” Josephine answered. with her finger upon the bell. “Have you men had your coffee?”

“We had it in the dining-room,” Jimmy assured her.

“I can't think why you hurried so,” Sarah grumbled. “You know I love to have a gossip with Josephine.”

“Couldn't stick being parted from you any longer, my dear,” the young man replied complacently.

Sarah made a grimace.

“To be perfectly candid,” Lord Dredlinton intervened. throwing away his cigar and lighting a cigarette, “I am afraid it was my fault that we came in so soon. Poor sort of host, eh, Jimmy? Fact is, I'm nervous to-night. Every newspaper I've picked up seems to be launching thunderbolts at the B. & I. And now this is the third day, and there's no news of Stanley. Here we are supposed to have the finest police system in the world, and yet a man can disappear in the very center of London and no one even has a clue as to what has become of him.”

“Looks bad,” Jimmy acknowledged.

“I don't understand much about business affairs,” Sarah remarked, “but the B. & I. does seem to be a remarkably unpopular undertaking, doesn't it?”

“The B. & I. is only an ordinary business concern,” Dredlinton insisted. “We have a right to make money if we are clever enough to do it. We speculate in lots of other things besides wheat, and we have our losses to face as well as our profits. I believe that fellow Wingate is at the bottom of all this agitation. Just like these confounded Americans! Why can't they mind their own business!”

“It isn't very long,” Josephine remarked dryly, “since we were rather glad that America didn't mind her own business.”

“Bosh!” her husband scoffed. “If English people are to be bullied and their liberty interfered with in this manner, we might as well have lost the war and become a German colony.”

“Don't agree with you, sir,” Jimmy declared, with most unusual seriousness. “I don't like the way you are talking, and I'm dead off the B. & I. myself. I'd cut my connection with it if I were you. Been looking for trouble for a long time—and, by Jove, I believe they're going to get it!”

“Rubbish! Lord Dredlinton muttered angrily.

“Heavens! Jimmy's in earnest!” Sarah exclaimed, rising. “I am sure it's time we went. We are overdue at his mother's. Come on, Jimmy. Good-by, Josephine dear. You'll forgive us if we hurry off? I did tell you we had to go directly after dinner, didn't I?”

“You did, dear,” Josephine assented, walking toward the door with her friend. “Come in and see me again soon.”

There was the sound of voices in the hall. Lord Dredlinton started eagerly.

“That's the fellow from Scotland Yard, I hope,” he said. “Promised to come round to-night. Perhaps they've news of Stanley.”

The door was thrown open. The butler ushered in a tall, thin man.

“Inspector Shields, my lord, he announced.

XXXIV

Lord Dredlinton's impatience was almost feverish. One would have imagined that Stanley Rees had been one of his dearest friends, instead of a young man whom he rather disliked.

“Come in, Inspector,” he invited. “Come in. Glad to see you. Any news?”

“None whatever, my lord,” was the laconic reply.

Dredlinton's face fell. He looked at his visitor, speechless for a moment. The inspector gravely saluted Josephine, and accepted the chair to which she waved him.

“Upon my word,” Dredlinton declared, “this is most disappointing!”

“I was afraid that you might find it so,” the inspector assented.

“But, dash it all,” Dredlinton exclaimed, “you must have some idea as to what has become of -him!

“If you assure us, my lord, that we may rule out any idea of a voluntary disappearance——”

“Voluntary disappearance,” Dredlinton interrupted. “Don't let me hear any more of such rubbish!”

“Then, in that case. my lord, I may put it to you that Mr. Rees's disappearance is due to the action of no ordinary criminal or blackmailer, but is part of a much deeper-laid scheme.”

“Exactly what do you mean?”

“It appears that Mr. Rees,” the inspector went on, speaking with some emphasis, “is connected with an undertaking which during the last few weeks, has provoked a wave of anger and disgust throughout the country.”

“Are you referring to the British & Imperial Granaries, Limited?”

“That is the name of the company.”

Lord Dredlinton's anxiety visibly increased.

“But, dash it all,” he expostulated, “there are other directors. I am one myself. Don't you see how serious this is?”

“It was in my mind to warn your lordship,” Shields observed.

Dredlinton's fear merged into fury—blind and nerveless passion.

“But this is outrageous!” he exclaimed, striking the table with his fist. “What on earth do we pay our police for? You've done nothing—nothing at all! Added to that, you actually come here and warn me that I, too, may be the victim of a plot against the ringleaders of which you seem to be helpless. The British & Imperial Granaries is a legitimate company doing a perfectly legitimate business.”

The inspector was a little weary, but he continued without any sign of impatience.

“I know nothing about the British & Imperial Granaries, my lord.” he said. “My time is too fully occupied to take any interest in outside affairs. In the course of time,” he went on, “we shall inevitably get to the bottom of this very cleverly engineered conspiracy. In the mean time, however, I thought it as well to pass you a word of warning.”

“Warning, indeed!” Dredlinton muttered. “I won't move out of the house without a body-guard. If any one dares to interfere with me, I'll—I'll shoot them!”

He moved to the sideboard, poured himself out a liqueur, and drank it off.

“Will you take something, Inspector?” he asked, turning round

“I thank your lordship, no.”

Dredlinton thrust his hands into his pockets and returned to his seat.

“I don't want to lose my temper,” he said. “I am perfectly cool, as you see now, Inspector—but put yourself in my position. Don't you think it's enough to make a man furious to have an official from Scotland Yard come into his house here in the heart of London and warn him that he is in danger of being kidnaped?”

“I don't think that I went quite so far as that,” the inspector objected, “”nor do I in any way suggest that, sooner or later, the people who are responsible for Mr. Rees's disappearance will not be brought to justice. But I consider it my duty to point out to you that the directors of your company appear to have excited a feeling throughout the whole of England which might well bring you enemies wholly unconnected with the ordinary criminal classes. That is where our difficulty lies.”

Lord Dredlinton had the air of a man argued into reasonableness.

“I see, Inspector. I quite understand,” he declared. “But listen to me: I shall throw myself upon your protection. In Mr. Rees's absence, it is of vital importance during the next few days, that nothing should happen to Mr. Phipps, Mr. Martin, or myself. You must have us all shadowed. You must see that I am not lost sight of for a moment. Here is a little earnest of what is to come,” he went on, drawing out his pocketbook and passing a folded note over toward his visitor, “and remember, Phipps has offered five hundred pounds for the discovery of the person who is responsible for his nephew's disappearance.”

Shields made no movement toward the money. He shook his head gently.

“I shall be glad to take the reward, my lord, if I am fortunate enough to earn it,” he said, rising to his feet. “Until then, I do not require payment for my services.”

Dredlinton replaced the note in his pocket.

“Just as you like, of course, Inspector. I only meant it as a little incentive.”

The butler stood on the threshold. He had entered, in response to Lord Dredlinton's ring, with the perfect silence and promptitude of the best of his class. His master stared at him for a moment uneasily. The man's appearance, grave and respectable though he was, seemed to have startled him.

“Show the inspector out,” he directed. “Good-night, Mr. Shields.”

The man bowed to Josephine.

“Good-night, my lord.”

Dredlinton stared at the closed door. Then he turned round with a little gesture of anger.

“What the mischief are we always changing servants for? There were two new men at dinner, and the butler of yours gives me the creeps. What on earth has become of Jacob?”

Josephine regarded him coldly.

“One's servants,” she remarked, “have an advantage. Jacob has found a better place.”

“Precisely what you'd like to do, eh?”

“Precisely what I intend to do before long.”

“Well then, why don't you do it?” he demanded brutally. “As soon as this infernal business is done with, I am going to pay a visit to my lawyers.”

“For once,” she said, with a faint smile, “you will take my good wishes with you.”

“You mean,” he exclaimed, “that you want to get rid of me?”

She met his scowling gaze fearlessly.

“Of course I do. I don't think that any woman could have lived with you as long as I have and not want to get rid of you. On the other hand, as you know—as in your heart you know perfectly well,” she went on, “I have remained a faithful wife to you, and it is not my intention to have you take advantage of a situation for which you were entirely responsible. You will have to remember, Henry, that the reason for my leaving your house in the middle of the night will hardly help your case.”

Dredlinton glared at this wife.

“Josephine,” he cried, “I don't care a damn about your leaving my house, then or at any time, but the more I think of it, the stranger it seems to me that this friend of yours, Wingate, should come to the office and threaten me for my connection with the B. & I., and at the moment of leaving offer to sell wheat!”

“Why single out Mr. Wingate?” she asked. “He certainly is not alone in his antipathy to your company.”

“Don't I know that?” Dredlinton exclaimed angrily. “Don't I get a dozen letters a day? But don't you understand that we must have money?”

Josephine regarded him with a cold lack of sympathy in her face.

“I understand that you have had about a hundred thousand pounds of mine,” she remarked.

“Like your generosity, my dear, to remind me of it!” he sneered. “To you, it seems, I suppose, a great deal of money. To me—well, I am not sure that it was fair compensation for what I have never had.”

“What you have never had you never deserved, Henry”

He flung himself toward the door.

“Josephine,” he said. looking back. “do you know you are one of the few women in the world I can't talk to? I wonder whether the man who is so anxious to stand in my shoes——”

She was suddenly erect, her eyes flaming. He shuffled out and slammed the door after him, with a little nervous laugh.

XXV

Josephine was herself again within a few moments of her husband's departure. She stood perfectly still for some time, as though listening to his departing footsteps. Then she crossed the room and pressed the bell twice. Once more she listened. The change in her expression was wonderful. She was expectant, eager, thrilled with the contemplation of some imminent happening. Then her vigil came suddenly to an end. The door was opened and closed again. It was no servant who had obeyed her summons. It was Wingate.

“Everything goes well?” he asked, as he advanced rapidly into the room.

Absolutely!”

“And the new butler? Satisfactory, I trust?”

“A paragon,” she replied, with a little gleam in her eyes.

Wingate nodded.

“Good! Where is your husband now?”

“Gone to his den to have a drink, I expect,” she replied. “He is in a terrible state of nerves already.”

“I am afraid he will be worse before we've done with him,” Wingate remarked, a little grimly. “Josephine, just one moment!”

She was in his arms, and forgetfulness enfolded them. He felt the soft cling of her body, the warm sweetness of her lips. It was she who disengaged herself.

“I am terrified of Henry coming back,” she admitted, as she moved reluctantly away. “He is in one of his most hateful moods to-night. Better than anything in the world, he would love to make a scene.”

“He shall have all the opportunity he wants presently,” Wingate observed.

The door was opened with the soft abruptness of one who has approached it noiselessly by design. Dredlinton stood upon the threshold. He recognized Wingate with a start of amazement.

“Wingate!” he exclaimed. “Why the mischief didn't anyone tell me you were here?”

“Mr. Wingate called to see me,” Josephine replied.

There was an ugly curl upon Dredlinton's lips. Then his truculent attitude suddenly vanished. He became an entirely altered person.

“Look here, Wingate,” he confessed: “On thinking it over, I believe I've been making rather an idiot of myself. Josephine,” he went on, turning to his wife, “be so kind as to leave us alone for a short time.”

He opened the door. Josephine hesitated for a moment. Then, in response to a barely noticeable gesture from Wingate she left the room. Her husband closed the door carefully behind her.

“Wingate,” he invited, “sit down and smoke a cigar with me. Let us have a reasonable chat. I am convinced that there is nothing for us to quarrel about.”

“Since when have you come to that conclusion, Lord Dredlinton?”

“Since our interview at the office.”

“You mean when you tried to blackmail me into selling my shipping shares?”

Dredlinton frowned.

“'Blackmail' is not a word to be used between gentlemen,” he protested. “Look here: Can't you behave like decent fellow—an ordinary human being, you know? You are not exactly my sort, but I am sure you're a man of honor. I haven't any objection to your friendship with my wife—none in the world.”

“The sentiments which I entertain for your wife, Lord Dredlinton, are not sentiments of friendship.”

“What's that?” Dredlinton exclaimed. “You mean that, after all, you've humbugged me, both of you?”

“Not in the way you seem to imagine. This much, however, is true, and it is just as well that you should know it: I love your wife, and I intend to take her from you, in her time and mine.”

Dredlinton lighted a cigar and threw himself back into his chair.

“Well, you don't mince matters,” he muttered.

“I see no reason why I should.”

“After all,” Dredlinton observed, with a cynical turn of the lips, “I see no reason why I should object. Josephine's been no wife of mine for years. Perhaps you have a fancy for your love-affairs wrapped up in a little ice-frosting.”

Wingate's eyes flashed.

“That'll do,” he advised, with ominous calm.

“Eh?”

“We will not discuss your wife.”

Dredlinton shrugged his shoulders.

“As you will. Assist me, then, in my office of host. What shall we discuss?”

“The disappearance of Stanley Rees, if you like,” was the unexpected reply.

Dredlinton stared at his visitor. Symptoms of panic were beginning to reassert themselves.

“You admit, then, that you were concerned in that?”

“I was and am entirely responsible for it.

Dredlinton's face went deadly pale. He seemed, indeed, on the point of collapse.

“Why have you done this?” he faltered. “Tell me what you mean, man!”

Wingate smiled.

“Rees,” he said, “is the youngest of the British & Imperial directors. Let me see—next to him would come Phipps, I suppose. Martin left for Paris this morning—ostensibly. I have an idea myself that his destination is South America.”

“Martin gone?” the other gasped.

“Without a doubt. I think he saw trouble ahead. By the bye, have you heard anything of Phipps lately? Why not ring up and inquire about his health?'

Dredlinton stared a little wildly at the speaker. Then he staggered to the telephone, snatched up the receiver.

“Mayfair three-six-five,” he demanded. “Quick, please!... An urgent call!... Yes? Who's that?. Yes, yes! Browning—Mr. Phipps' secretary? I understand. Where's Mr. Phipps?... What?”

Dredlinton drew for a moment away from the telephone. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse.

“Something unusual seems to have happened,” Wingate remarked softly.

The receiver slipped from Dredlinton's nerveless fingers. He turned round to face Wingate. his eyes bloodshot, a slave to abject fear.

“Peter Phipps has disappeared!” he gasped. “This is your doing!”

“It is my doing,” Wingate admitted, with his eyes fixed upon the other's face.

Dredlinton stumbled to the fireplace, found the bell, and pressed it violently.

“My servants shall hear you repeat that!” he exclaimed. “I will have them all in. You are pleading guilty to a crime. I shall send out for the police!”

“Not a bad idea,” Wingate acknowledged. “By the bye, though,” he added, a moment or two later, “your servants don't seem in a great hurry to answer that bell. You will really have to change them. Fancy not answering a bell! Still, you have the telephone. Why not ring up Scotland Yard direct?”

Dredlinton, dazed now with terror, snatched up the telephone receiver.

“Quick!” he shouted down the receiver. “Scotland Yard! Put me straight through to Scotland Yard! Can you hear me, Exchange? I am Lord Dredlinton, number one-three-eight-seven Mayfair. If I am cut off, ring through to Scotland Yard yourself. Tell them I am in danger of my life! Tell them to rush here at once!”

“Yes; they had better hurry,” Wingate remarked tersely.

Dredlinton pulled down the hook of the receiver desperately.

“Can't you hear me, Exchange?” he shouted. “Quick! This is urgent!”

“Really,” Wingate remarked, “the telephone people seem almost as negligent as your servants.”

The receiver slipped from the hysterical man's fingers. He collapsed into a chair and leaned across the table.

“What does it mean?” he demanded hoarsely. “No one will answer.”

“If you really want some one, I dare say I can help you,” Wingate replied. “The telephone-wire was cut by my orders as soon as you had spoken to Phipps' rooms.”

Dredlinton had rushed to the door, shaken the handle violently, only to find it locked. He pounded on it with his fists.

“Come, come,” his companion expostulated; “there is really no need for such extremes. Allow me.”

Wingate crossed the room, rang the bell three times quickly, and stood, in an easy attitude, upon the hearth-rug.

“Let us see.” he said, “whether that has any effect or not.”

“Is this your house or mine?” Dredlinton demanded.

“Your house,” was the laconic reply, “but my servants.”

From outside was heard the sound of a turning key. The door was opened. Grant, the new butler, made his appearance a thin, determined-looking man, with white hair and keen dark eyes, who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Andrew Slate.

“His lordship wants the whisky and soda brought in here, Grant,” Wingate told him, “and—wait just a moment. You seem very much distressed about the disappearance of your friends, Lord Dredlinton. Would you like to see them?”

“What? See Rees and Phipps?”

“Yes.”

“You are talking nonsense!” Dredlinton shouted. “You may know where they are—I should think it is very likely that you do—but you aren't going to persuade me that you've got them here in my house.”

Wingate glanced across at the butler, who nodded understandingly and withdrew. Dredlinton intercepted the look and shook his fist.

“You've been tampering with my servants, damn you!” he exclaimed.

“Well, they haven't been yours very long, have they?” Wingate reminded him.

“So this is all part of a plot!” Dredlinton continued with increasing apprehension. “They are in your pay, are they? It was only this morning I noticed all these new faces round me. God help us!”

The words seemed to melt away from his lips. The door had been flung open, and a queer little procession entered. First of all came Grant, followed by a footman leading Peter Phipps by the arm. Phipps' hands were tied together. A gag in the form of a respirator covered his mouth. Cords, which had apparently only just been unknotted, were round each leg. He had the expression of a man completely dazed. After him came another of the footmen, leading Stanley Rees, who was in similar straits. Wingate motioned to a third footman, who had followed behind.

“Pull out that round table,” he directed. “Place three chairs round it. So. Sit down. Phipps. Sit down, Rees.”

They obeyed. Dredlinton, who had been speechless for the last few seconds, gazed with horror-stricken eyes at the third chair. Wingate smiled at him grimly.

“That third chair, Dredlinton,” he announced, “is for you.”

The terrified man made an ineffectual dash for the door.

“You mean to make a prisoner of me in own house?” he shouted, as he found himself in the clutches of one of the footmen. “What fool's game is this? You know you can't keep it up, Wingate. You'll be transported, man. Come; confess it's a joke.”

“It is a joke,” Wingate assured him gravely, “but it may need a very peculiar sense of humor to appreciate it. However, you need not fear. Your life is not threatened. Now, Dickenson, the loaf!”

The third man stepped back to the door and, from hands of another servant who was waiting there, took an ordinary cottage-loaf. The three men now were seated round the table, bound to their chairs and gagged. In the middle of the table, just beyond their reach, Wingate, leaning over them, placed the loaf of bread.

“I am now,” he announced, standing a little back, “going to tell Grant to release your gags. You will probably all try shouting. I can assure you that it is quite hopeless. This room looks out, you know, upon a courtyard. Every person under this roof is in my employ. There is no earthly chance of your being heard by anyone. Now, Grant!”

The man unfastened the gags—first Phipps', then Rees's, and finally Dredlinton's. Curiously enough, not one of the three men raised their voices. Wingate's words seemed to have impressed them. Dredlinton was the only one who broke into anything like violent speech.

“My God, Wingate,” he exclaimed, “you think I'll ever forget this, you're mistaken! I'll see you in prison for it!”

“The after-consequences of this little melodrama,” Phipps interposed, with grim fury, “certainly present something of a problem. What good can you expect by this brigandage?”

Wingate smiled.

“The very word 'brigandage,'” he observed, “suggests my answer—ransom.”

“But you can't want money!” Phipps protested.

“We are wasting time,” Wingate declared, a little shortly. “It is better that we have a complete understanding. Get this into your head,” he went on, drawing a long, ugly-looking pistol from his trousers pocket and displaying it. “This is an automatic pistol. I shall leave you, for the present, ungagged, but if rescue comes to you by any efforts of your own, I give you my word of honor that I shall shoot the three of you and be proud of my night's work.”

“And swing for it afterward,” Dredlinton threatened. “The man's mad!”

“The man is in earnest,” Phipps growled, “What are your terms? You must state them sooner or later.”

“Agreed,” Wingate replied. He pointed to the loaf of bread. “The cost of that loaf is, I believe, to be exact, one and tenpence ha'penny—one and tenpence ha'penny to poor people. When you sign an authority to sell wheat in sufficient bulk to bring the cost down to sixpence, you can have the loaf and go as soon as the sale is finished. You will find here,” he went on, laving a document upon the table “a calculation which may help you. Your approximate holdings of wheat may be exaggerated a trifle, although these lists came from your office, but I think you will find that the figures there will be of assistance to you when you decide to give the word.”

“Let me get this clearly into my head,” Phipps begged, after a moment's amazed silence, “without the possibility of an mistake. You mean that we are to sell wheat at about sixty per cent. less than the present market value—in many cases sixty per cent. less than we gave for it?”

“That, I imagine, will be about the position,” Wingate admitted.

“What if we refuse?” Dredlinton asked.

“You will be made a little more secure,” Wingate explained, “your gags fastened and your arms corded to the backs of the chairs.”

“But for how long?”

“Until you give the word.”

“And supposing we never give the word?” Stanley Rees demanded.

“Then you sit there,” Wingate replied, “until you die.”

Dredlinton glanced covertly at Phipps.

“This is a matter which we ought to discuss in private conference,” he said slowly. “What do you think, Phipps?”

“I agree.”

“I am afraid,” Wingate interrupted suavely, “that Mr. Phipps' views will not affect the situation.”

“Supposing,” Rees suggested, “we were induced to knuckle under, to become the victim of your damned blackmailing scheme, surely, then, one of us would be allowed to go down to the City on parole, eh?”

Wingate shook his head.

“I regret to say that I should not feel justified in letting one of you out of my sight. In the event of your seeing reason, the telephone will be at your disposal, and a verbal message could be confirmed by all three of you. I imagine that your office would sell on such instructions.”

Phipps, who had been sitting during the last few minutes in a state almost of torpor, began to show signs of his old self.

“That is a matter which need not be discussed.” he declared. “You have taken our breath away, Wingate. I am only now beginning to realize that you are in earnest in this idiotic piece of melodrama, but, if you are, so are we. You can starve us or shoot us or suffocate us, but we shall not sell wheat. By God, we shan't!”

Wingate simply shrugged his shoulders.

“I accept your defiance,” he announced. “Let us begin our tryst.”

Dredlinton struck the table with his fist.

“I will not submit!” he exclaimed. “My health will not stand it!”

There was meaning in his eyes as well as in his tone—a meaning which Phipps put brutally into words.

“It's no good, Dredlinton,” he warned him. “We are going to stick it out, and you've got to stick it out with us. But,” he added, glaring at Wingate, “remember this: Only half an hour before I was taken, Scotland Yard rang up to tell me that they thought they had a clue as to Stanley's disappearance. You risk five years' penal servitude by this freak.”

“I am content,” was the cool reply.

“But I am not!” Dredlinton shouted, straining at his cords. “I resign! I resign from the board! I chuck it! Set me free!”

“The proper moment for your resignation from the board of the British & Imperial Granaries,” Wingate told him sternly, “was a matter of six months ago. You are a little too late, Dredlinton.”

Phipps leaned a little across the table.

“We shall suffer,” he said hoarsely, “but it will be for hours. With you, Wingate, it will be a matter of years. Our turn will come when we visit you in prison.”

XXVI

In the board-room of the British & Imperial Granaries, Limited, were four vacant chairs and four unoccupied desks, each of the latter piled with a mass of letters. Outside was disquietude; in the Street, almost a riot. Callers were compelled to form themselves into line—and left, with scanty comfort. Wingate, by what seemed to be special favor, was passed through the little throng and ushered by Harrison himself into the deserted board-room.

“So you have no news of any of your directors, Harrison?” the former observed.

“None whatever, sir.”

“What happens to the business, eh—to your big operations?” Wingate inquired.

"The business suffers to some extent, of course,” Harrison admitted.

“Your banking arrangements?”

“I have limited powers of signature. So far, the bank has been lenient.”

“I see.” Wingate ruminated—and waited.

“The general policy of the firm is, as you are aware, to buy,” Harrison continued thoughtfully. “That policy has naturally been suspended during the last forty-eight hours. There are rumors, too, of a large shipment of wheat from an unexpected source, by some steamers which we had failed to take account of. Prices are dropping every hour.”

“Materials?”

The confidential clerk shook his head.

“Only by points and fractions. The market is never sure of our principals. Sometimes, when they have bought most largely, they have remained inactive for a few days beforehand, on purpose to depress prices.”

“Do people believe in—their disappearance?”

“Not down here—in the City, I mean,” Harrison replied grimly. “To be frank with you, the market suspects a plant.”

“Let me,” Wingate suggested, “give you my impression as to the disappearance of three of your directors. I picture them to myself as indulging in a secret tour through the north of England—a tour undertaken in order that they may realize personally whether their tactics have really produced the suffering and distress reported. I picture them convinced. I ask myself what would be their natural course of action. Without a doubt, they would sell wheat.”

“'Sell wheat,'” Harrison repeated. “Yes!”

“They would be in a hurry,” Wingate continued. “They would not wish to waste a moment. They would probably telephone their instructions. Would it be sufficient if you recognized the voice?”

“Confirmation from a fellow director I might have to ask for,” Harrison decided.

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“And how long would it take you to sell, say——”

“I should prefer not to have quantities mentioned,” Harrison interrupted. “When we start to sell in a dozen places, the thing is beyond exact calculation. The brake can be put on if necessary.”

“I understand,” Wingate replied. “But I should think it probable, if the truth dawns upon our friends, that no brake will be necessary. As regards your own affairs, Harrison?”

“I received your letter last night, sir.”

“You found its contents satisfactory?”

“I found them generous, sir.”

Wingate took up his hat and stick.

“My visit here,” he remarked, “might easily be misconstrued. Would it be possible for me to leave without fighting my way through that mob?”

Harrison led the way through an inner room to a door opening out upon a passage. He stood there with the handle of the door in his hand. There was no farewell between him and his departing visitor, no sign of intelligence in his inscrutable face.

“Presuming that the disappearance of Mr. Phipps, Mr. Rees, and Lord Dredlinton is accounted for by this supposed journey to the North,” he ventured, “when should you imagine that they might be communicating with me?”

“About dawn to-morrow,” Wingate replied. “You will be here?”

“I never leave,” was the quiet answer. “About dawn to-morrow?”

“Or before.”

 

Josephine asked the same question in a different manner when Wingate entered her little sitting-room a few hours later.

“They are obstinate?'” she inquired curiously.

He sipped the tea which she had handed to him.

“Very,” he admitted. “Yet, after all, why not? If we succeed, it is, at any rate, the end of their private fortunes, of Phipps' ambitions, and your husband's dreams of wealth.”

“So much the better,” she declared sadly. “More money with Henry has only meant a greater eagerness to get rid of it.”

A companionship which had no need of words seemed to have sprung up between them. They sat together for some minutes without speech, minutes during which the deep silence which reigned throughout the house seemed curiously accentuated. Josephine shivered. She placed her hand in his.

“I shall never know what happiness is,” she declared, “until I have left this house—never to return.”

“That will not be long,” Wingate reminded her gravely.

Her eyes glowed for a moment, but she was disturbed, tremulous, agitated.

“I listen for footsteps in the streets,” she confessed. “I am afraid.”

“Needlessly,” he assured her. “I know for a fact that Shields is off the scent.”

“But he is not a fool,” she answered hastily. “I only saw him for a few minutes, but he impressed me.”

“Shields is, without doubt, a capable person,” Wingate admitted, “but he could only succeed in this case by blind guessing. Stanley Rees was brought into this house through the mews, without observation by any living person. Phipps, when he received that supposed message from you was only too anxious to come the same way. Honestly, Josephine, I think that you may banish your fears.”

“A woman's fears only, dear,” she admitted, as she gave him her hands. “Why did nature make my sex pessimists and yours optimists, I wonder? I would so much rather look toward the sun.”

“Soon,” he promised her, with a smile “you will find your long-delayed happiness.”

The tears which stood in her eyes were of unalloyed content; the drama so close at hand was forgotten. Their hands remained clasped for a moment. Then he left her.

 

Back into that room, with its strange mystery of shadows, its odor of mingled tragedy and absurdity. Grant rose from a high-backed chair guarding the table as Wingate approached. The latter glanced toward the three men crouching round the table. Their white faces gleamed weirdly against the background of shaded light. There were black lines under Dredlinton's eyes. He made a gurgling effort at speech—his muttered words were only partly coherent.

“I resign! I resign!”

Wingate shook his head.

“I am afraid, Lord Dredlinton,” he said, “that you are in the hands of your fellow directors. One may not be released without the others. Directly you can induce Mr. Phipps and Mr. Rees to see reason you will all three be restored to liberty.”

Phipps lurched toward him with furious gesture. Wingate only smiled a he threw himself into his easy chair.

“Wheat is falling very slowly,” he announced. “Everyone is waiting for the B. & I. to sell. You may go now, Grant,” he added; “I will take up the watch myself.”

XXVII

Wingate, notwithstanding his iron nerve, woke with a start in the gray of the following morning, to find his heart pounding against his ribs and a chill sense of horror stealing into his brain. Nothing had happened or was happening except that one cry—the low, awful cry of a man in agony. Dredlinton, from whom had come the sound, had fallen with his head and shoulders upon the table. Phipps was sitting bolt upright. Rees was leaning far back in his chair. His patch of high color had gone. There was an ugly twist to his mouth, a livid tinge in his complexion, but nevertheless he slept. His fingers clenched round the butt of his pistol, Wingate rose to his feet and watched. Phipps seemed keyed up to suffering. Dredlinton showed no sign. Their jailer strolled up to the table.

“There is the bread there, Phipps,” he said, “a breakfast-tray outside, and some coffee. How goes it?”

Phipps turned his leaden face. His eyes glowed dully. He said nothing.

Wingate returned to his place, lighted and smoked a pipe, and dozed off again. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight was streaming in through a chink in the closed curtains. He looked toward the table. Dredlinton had not moved. Rees was crying quietly, like a child. An unhealthy-looking perspiration had broken out on Phipps' face.

“Really,” Wingate remarked, “you are all giving yourselves an unnecessary amount of suffering.”

Phipps spoke the fateful words after two ineffectual efforts.

“We give in,” he faltered. “We sell.”

“Capital!” Wingate exclaimed, rising promptly to his feet. “Come! In ten minutes you shall be drinking coffee or wine—whichever you fancy. We will hurry this little affair through.”

He crossed the room, opened a cupboard, and brought a telephone instrument to the table.

“City one-thousand,” he began.... “Yes.... British & Imperial?... Right! Mr. Harrison there?... Ask him to come to the 'phone, please.... Harrison?... Good! Mr. Phipps will speak to you.”

Wingate held the telephone before the half-unconscious man. Phipps swayed toward it.

“Yes? That Harrison?... Mr. Phipps.... No; it's quite all right. We've been away, Mr. Rees and I. We've decided—to sell wheat—to sell, you understand? You are to telephone Liverpool, Manchester, Lincoln, Glasgow, Bristol, and Cardiff. Establish the price of sixty shillings. Yes: that's right—sixty shillings. What is that you say?... You want conformation? Mr. Rees will speak.”

Wingate passed the telephone to Rees. His voice sounded strained. and cracked.

“Mr. Rees speaking, Harrison.... Yes; we are back. We'll be round at the office later on. You got Mr. Phipps' message?... We've made up our minds to sell wheat—sell it.... What the devil does it matter to you why? We are selling it to save—" Wingate's pistol had stolen from his pocket. Rees glared at it for a moment and then went on: “To save an injunction from the government. We have private information. They have determined to find our dealings in wheat illegal. Yes: Mr. Phipps meant what he said—sixty shillings. Use all our long-distance wires. How long will it take you?... A quarter of an hour? When you've got the message through, ring us up. Where are we? Why, at Lord Dredlinton's house. Don't be longer than you can help. Put a different person on each line.... What's that?”

Rees turned his head.

“He wants to know again,” he said, “how much to sell. Let me say half our stock. That will be sufficient to ruin us.”

“The whole stock,” said Wingate.

“Sell the whole stock,” Rees repeated.

Wingate replaced the telephone upon a distant table. Then he mixed a little brandy and water in two glasses, broke off a piece of bread, set it before the two men, and rang the bell. It was answered in an incredibly short space of time.

“Grant,” he directed, “bring in breakfast-trays in ten minutes.”

The man disappeared as silently as he had come. Wingate cut the knots and released the hands of his two prisoners. Their fingers were numb and helpless, however. Rees picked up the bread with his teeth from the table. Phipps tried, but failed. Wingate held the tumbler of brandy and water once more to his lips.

“Here—take this,” he invited.

“Aren't you going to give him anything?” Phipps asked, moving his head toward Dredlinton.

“He is asleep,” Wingate answered. “Better leave him alone until breakfast is ready.”

The telephone bell tinkled. Wingate brought back the instrument and held out a receiver each to Phipps and his nephew.

“Harrison speaking. Your messages have all gone through on the trunk lines, sir. The sales have begun already, and the whole market is in a state of collapse. If you are coming down, I should advise you, sir, to come in by the back entrance. There'll be a riot here when the news gets about.”

Wingate removed the telephone once more.

“And now,” he suggested, “you would like a wash, perhaps? Or, first, we'd better wake Dredlinton.”

He touched the crouching form upon the shoulder. There was no response.

“Dredlinton,” he said firmly, “wake up. Your vigil is over.”

Again there was no response. Wingate leaned over and lifted him up bodily by both shoulders. It was a terrible sight upon which they looked—Dredlinton's face like a piece of marble, white to the lips, the eyes open and staring, the unmistakable finger of Death written across it.

“He's gone!” Rees choked. “Gone!”

Phipps suddenly found vigor once more in his arm. He struck the table. There was a note of triumph in his brazen tone.

“My God, Wingate,” he cried, “you've killed him! You'll swing for this job, after all!”

There followed a few moments of tense and awestruck silence. Rees looked at Wingate with triumphant malice.

“This is murder!” he exclaimed.

“So your excellent uncle has already intimated,” Wingate replied. “I am sorry that it has happened, of course. As for the consequences, I do not fear them.”

He crossed the room and rang the bell. Once more, a servant in plain clothes made a prompt appearance.

“Send to her ladyship's room,” Wingate directed, “and inquire the name and address of Lord Dredlinton's doctor. Let him be fetched here at once. Tell two of the others to come down. Lord Dredlinton must be carried into his bedroom.”

The man had hardly left the room before the door was opened again and Grant himself appeared. This time, he closed the door behind him and came a little way toward Wingate.

“Inspector Shields is here, sir,” he announced, in an agitated whisper.

Wingate started.

“What does he want?”

“He wants to see Lord Dredlinton.”

Wingate hesitated for a moment, deep in thought. Behind him, the two exhausted men chuckled hideously.

“Some playing-cards,” Wingate directed, suddenly breaking into speech. “Open that sideboard, Grant. Bring out the sandwiches and biscuits and fruit, That's right. And some glasses. Open the champagne quickly. Cigars, too. Here—shut the door. We must have a moment or two at this. You understand, Grant—a debauch.”

The two moved about like lightning. In an incredibly short time, the room presented a strange appearance. The table before which the three men had kept their weary vigil was littered all over with playing-cards, cigar-ash, fragments of broken wine-glasses. A half-empty bottle of champagne stood on the floor. Two empty ones, their contents emptied into some flower-bowls, lay on their sides. Another pack of cards was scattered upon the carpet. A chair was overturned. There was every indication of a late night-sitting and a debauch. Last all, Grant and Wingate between them carried the body of Lord Dredlinton behind the screen and laid it upon the sofa. Then the latter stood back and surveyed his work.

“That will do,” he said. “Wait one moment, Grant, before you show the inspector in. I have a word to say, first, to my two friends here.”

Phipps scowled across the table, heavy-eyed and sullen. His hands were gripping a chunk of the bread which he had seemed to eat with difficulty.

“Inspector Shields is coming in,” Wingate said calmly. “I gather from his visit that he is on the right track at last. But listen: If I am going to be arrested on a charge of abduction and manslaughter, as seems exceedingly probable, I am not going to leave my job half done. An English jury may call it murder if I shoot you two as you sit. I'll risk that. If I am going to get into trouble for one of you, I'll make sure of the lot.”

His voice carried conviction. The two men stared at him. Rees, who had been gnawing at a crust of bread, staggered to his feet.

“You wouldn't dare!” he scoffed.

“You underestimate my courage,” Wingate assured them, with a smile. “See! I will speak to you words which I swear are as true as any to which you have ever listened. I hear the footsteps of the inspector. If you fail, for a single second, to corroborate the story which I shall tell him, I shall shoot you both and possibly myself. Look at me, both of you. You know I have the courage to do it. You know I will do it. That's all.”

There was a knock at the door. Grant opened it and stood on one side.

“Inspector Shields has called,” he announced. “I thought you might like to have a word with him, sir.”

XXVIII

The inspector blinked for a moment. The appearance of the room. with its closely drawn curtains and air of dissipation, was certainly strange. Wingate advanced to meet him.

“You called to see Lord Dredlinton, I believe, Inspector,” he began. “My name is Wingate. I am—a friend of the family.”

“I understood that Lord Dredlinton was here,” the inspector announced.

“I am sorry to say,” Wingate informed him gravely. “that a very terrible thing has happened. Lord Dredlinton died suddenly in this room only a few minutes ago. His body is upon the sofa there.”

The imperturbability of the inspector was not proof against such an amazing statement.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Was he ill?”

“Not that we know of,” Wingate replied. “The doctor, who is on his way here, will doubtless be able to inform us upon that point. I have always understood that his heart was not sound.”

The inspector, as he stepped forward toward the couch, with Wingate a yard or two in front of him, for the first time recognized the two men who sat at the round table looking at him so strangely. Rees's hands were in his pockets; his tie had come undone; his hair was ruffled. He had all the appearance of a man recovering from a wild debauch. Phipps' waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his eyes were streaked with blood.

“Mr. Rees!” the inspector exclaimed. “And Mr. Phipps! Here? Why, I've a dozen men all over the country looking for you two gentlemen!”

There was a dead silence. Wingate's hand had stolen into his pocket, in which there was a little bulge. Rees seemed about to speak, then checked himself.

“The wanderers returned,” Wingate explained, with a smile. “Lord Dredlinton, as you know, Inspector, has been very much worried by the supposed disappearance of his fellow directors. They turned up here last night unexpectedly. It seems that they have been all the time up in the north of England, making some investigations connected with the activities of their company. Their sudden return was naturally a great relief to Lord Dredlinton. We all celebrated—perhaps a little too well. Since then, I am afraid we must also plead guilty,” Wingate went on, “to a rather wild night, which has ended, as you see, in tragedy.”

The inspector bent down and examined Lord Dredlinton's body. Then he turned toward the two men, who had been silent listeners. In his face there seemed to be some desire for corroboration.

“You two gentlemen were present when Lord Dredlinton died?” he asked.

“We were,” Phipps replied, after a moment's hesitation.

“We believed that it was a faint,” Rees observed.

“Nothing else transpired during the evening,” the inspector continued, “likely to have proved a shock to his lordship?”

“Nothing,” Phipps declared hoarsely. “We must have been playing for a great many hours.”

“I am a strong man,” Rees added, “but I, too, feel faint.”

“It seems a little strange, Mr. Wingate,” Shields remarked, turning toward him, “that you yourself show not the slightest signs of fatigue.”

Wingate smiled grimly.

“I neither drink nor smoke to excess,” he explained, “and, as a rule, I keep regular hours. Perhaps that is why, if I choose to sit up all night, I am able to stand it.”

There was a knock at the door. Grant presented himself.

“The doctor has arrived, sir,” he announced.

“You had better show him in,” Wingate replied. “And—Grant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“It would be as well, I think, to let her ladyship be informed that Lord Dredlinton is ill—very ill.”

The man bowed, and stood on one side as the doctor entered. The latter paused for a moment in astonishment as he looked in upon the scene. Then he moved toward one of the windows and threw it open.

“If Lord Dredlinton has been sitting for long in an atmosphere like this,” he observed dryly, “it's enough to have killed him.”

He glanced round with an air of distaste at Phipps and Rees, at the débris of the presumed debauch, and stooped over the body stretched upon the sofa. His examination lasted barely a minute.

“Lord Dredlinton is dead,” he announced then, in a shocked tone.

“I feared so,” Wingate murmured.

“Will you call in some servants?” the doctor went on. “I should like the body carried into his lordship's bedroom.”

Grant appeared, quickly followed by two of his subordinates. The melancholy little procession left the room. Shields turned to follow it. As he reached the door, he glanced toward Wingate.

“Mr. Wingate,” he said, “I wish to hear what the doctor has to say concerning Lord Dredlinton's death, but I also wish to have another word with you before you leave the house. Can I rely upon your waiting here for me?”

“I give you my word,” Wingate promised.

“I shall also require some explanation,” the inspector continued, turning to Phipps.

“Explanation be damned!” the latter interrupted furiously. “If you want to know the truth——”

He broke off suddenly. His eyes seemed fascinated by the slow entry of Wingate's hand into his pocket. He kicked a foot-stool sullenly on one side. The inspector, after waiting for a moment, turned away.

“I shall require, in due season,” he concluded, “to hear the truth from both of you gentlemen. You seem to have given Scotland Yard a great deal of unnecessary trouble.”

XXIX

The telephone-bell began to ring as the door closed. Wingate took up the receiver, listened for a moment, and passed the instrument over to Phipps. The latter presently replaced the receiver upon its hook with a little groan.

“You've broken us,” he announced grimly.

“No news has ever given me greater pleasure,” Wingate replied.

Stanley Rees rose to his feet.

“We are not prisoners any more, I suppose?” he asked sullenly. “I am going home.”

“There is nothing to detain you,” Wingate replied politely, “unless you choose to take breakfast first.”

“We want no more of your hospitality,” Phipps muttered. “You will hear from us again. ”

Wingate stood between them and the door.

“Listen,” he said: “You are going away, I can see, with one idea in your mind. You have held your peace during the last quarter of an hour, because you have known that your lives would be forfeited if you told the truth, but you are saying to yourselves now that, from the shelter of other walls, you can tell your story. You cannot,” he continued, “by the wildest stretch of imagination, believe that this had been a one-man job. The whole scheme of your conveyance into Dredlinton House and into this room has necessitated the employment of something like twenty men. The greater part of these, of course, have been paid by me. One or two are volunteers.”

“'Volunteers!'” Phipps exclaimed. “Do you mean that you could find men to do your dirty work for nothing?”

“I found men,” Wingate answered sternly, “and I could find many more—and without payment, too—who were willing to enter into any scheme directed against you and your company.”

“Are we to stand here,” Phipps demanded, “while you preach us a sermon about our business methods?”

“I am afraid, for your own sakes, you must hear what I have to say before you go,” Wingate replied. “I will put it in as few words as possible. If you give the show away, besides making yourselves the laughing-stocks of the world, you may live for twenty-four hours if my people are unlucky, but I give you my word of honor that you will both of you be dead before the dawn of the second day.”

Phipps moistened his dry lips.

“If,” he said, “we decide to hold our peace about the happenings of the last few days, it will not be because of your threats.”

“So long as you hold your peace,” Wingate replied dryly, “I have no desire to question your motives. Believe me, though, silence, and silence alone, will preserve your lives.”

He opened the door, and they passed out of the room. Grant came suddenly into evidence.

“Breakfast is served in the dining-room,” he announced respectfully.

A flickering anger seemed suddenly to blaze up in Stanley Rees.

“Open the door,” he snarled, “and let us get out of this!”

 

Almost before the front door had closed upon Phipps and his nephew, Inspector Shields entered the room which had been the scene of the tragedy. Wingate we standing in the midst of the débris at the far end of the apartment, directing operations of a servant whom he had summoned. Shields held up his hand.

“Stop, please,” he ordered quietly.

The two men both looked round.

“I was just having the room cleared up,” Wingate explained.

“Presently,” was the curt reply. “Please send the man away. I want a word with you alone.”

“Wingate nodded understandingly.

“I will ring if I need you, John,” he said quietly.

The man left the room. Wingate sat upon the arm of an easy chair. Shields stood looking meditatively about him.

“What is the physician's report?” the former asked.

The inspector seemed to come back from a brown study.

“Ah! Upon Lord Dredlinton? A very good report from your point of view, Mr. Wingate. Lord Dredlinton's death was due to exhaustion, but the doctor certifies that he was suffering, and has been for some time, from advanced valvular disease of the heart. The immediate cause of his death was the strain of—what shall we call it, Mr. Wingate—this orgy?”

“An excellent word,” Wingate agreed.

The inspector lifted one of the packs of cards which had been dashed upon the table, and looked at them thoughtfully.

“Poker,” he murmured. “By the bye, where are the chips?”

Wingate shrugged his shoulders. He made no reply. Shields took up one of the bottles of champagne, held it to the light.

“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I do not know much about champagne, but it seems to me that this has not been opened very long. By the bye, you all drank champagne?” he went on. “I see no trace of any spirits about.”

“It was one of Lord Dredlinton's hobbies,” Wingate declared. “Spirits are very seldom served in this house.”

The inspector nodded. He had crossed to the sideboard and was looking into the contents of a great bowl of flowers.

“I never heard,” he reflected, “that roses did well in champagne. Let me see,” he proceeded, counting the empty bottles, “four bottles between four of you, the contents of at least two bottles here, and—dear me, the carnations, too!” he went on, peering into a further bowl. “Really, Mr. Wingate, your orgy hardly seems to have been one of drink.”

“Perhaps it was not,” was the resigned reply.

The inspector sighed.

“I have seldom,” he pronounced, looking fixedly at his companion, “seen a more amateurish piece of work than the arrangement of this so-called debauch.”

“What is this leading up to?” Wingate demanded.

The Inspector drew a little pamphlet from his pocket and passed it across. Wingate took it into his hands, opened it.

“A list of steamer sailings!” he exclaimed.

Shields nodded.

“The Agricola sails to-morrow.”

Wingate glanced from the list to his companion. The inspector was making movements as though about to depart. Wingate himself was speechless.

“The physician is able to certify,” Shields went on, “that Lord Dredlinton's death is due to natural causes. There will be no inquest. That being the case, it is not my business to make inquiries—unless I choose. And I do not choose,” he concluded.

XXX

Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year at a well-chosen table at Ciro's Restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table, and a menu which had commanded the respect of the maître d'hôtel. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.

“Those figures from the official receiver,” Phipps remarked, “are hardly what we had a right to expect, eh, Stanley?”

“They are simply scandalous!” Rees declared gloomily. “This man seems to think he has a lien upon our private fortunes.”

“Not only that,” Peter Phipps groaned, “but he's attaching as much as he can get hold of. And to think of that old devil, Skinflint Martin scenting the trouble and getting off to Buenos Aires! The best part of half a million he got off with. Pig! Stanley, this may be our last season at Monte Carlo. We shall have to draw in.”

“One month more of the British & Imperial,” Stanley Rees sighed, “and we should both have been millionaires.

“And as it is,” his uncle groaned, “I am getting nervous about our hotel bill.”

 

With a benedictory wave of his hand, an all-welcoming smile, and a backward progress which suggested distinction bordering upon royalty, the chief maître d'hôtel ushered his distinguished patrons to the table which had been reserved for them. Josephine looked across the little sea of her favorite blue gentians and smiled at her husband.

“You remember always,” she murmured.

Wingate, who was standing up until his guests were seated, flashed an answering smile. At his right hand was a French princess, who was Josephine's godmother; at his left, Sarah, lately glorified to married estate. An English Cabinet minister and an American diplomatist, with their wives, and Jimmy, completed the party. No one noticed the two men at the little table near the wall.

“You are a magician,” the princess whispered to Wingate. “Never could I have believed that my dear Josephine would become young again. They speak of her already as the most beautiful woman on the Riviera, and with reason. I am proud of my godchild. And they tell me that you,” she went on, “have done great things in the world of finance.”

“Is it true, Wingate,” the Cabinet minister asked, “that it was you who broke the British & Imperial Granaries?”

“I was to some extent responsible for smashing that horrible syndicate,” Wingate answered.

“It ought never to have been allowed to flourish,” the minister pronounced. “Its charter was cunningly devised to cheat our laws, and it succeeded. After all, though, it is good to think that the day when such an institution could live for a moment has passed. Labor and the reconstructionists have joined hands in sane legislation. It my belief that, for the next few decades, at any rate, the British empire and America—for the two move now hand in hand—are entering upon a period of world supremacy.”

The American diplomatist had something to say.

“For that,” he declared, “we may be thankful to those responsible for the destruction of militarism. Industrial triumphs were never possible under its shadow. An era of prosperity will also be an era of peace.”

“For how long, I wonder,” the princess whispered. “Human nature has shown remarkably little change through all the ages. Don't you think that, some day soon, one person will have what another covets, and the world will rock again to the clash of arms?”

“We are all selfish,” Josephine murmured. “Life closes in around us, and we are mostly concerned with what may happen in our own time. I think that for as long as we live, peace is assured.”

“I am sure I hope so,” Sarah declared, I should hate Jimmy to have to go and fight again.”

“What sort of husband does he make?” Wingate inquired.

“Wonderful!” Sarah acknowledged, with emphasis.

 

Phipps bit the end off his cigar a little savagely. He had been casting longing glances toward the table.

“So that is the end of my duel with Wingate,” he muttered. “I wonder whether it would be worth while.”

“Whether what would be worth while?” his nephew asked.

Phipps made no direct reply. He rose, instead, to his feet.

“I am going back to my room at the hotel for a moment, Stanley to fetch something,” he confided. “Order some more of the Napoleon brandy. I shall perhaps need it when I come back.”

The young man nodded, and Peter Phipps started on his way to the door. He had to pass the table at which Wingate was presiding, and it chanced that Josephine, looking up, met his eyes. There was a moment's hesitation in her mind. Women are always merciful when happy. Josephine was very happy, and Peter Phipps showed signs in his bearing and in the lines upon his face that he was not the man of six months ago. She smiled very slightly and bowed, a greeting which Phipps returned with a smile which was almost of gratitude. The Cabinet minister, who had met Phipps and remembered little of his history, followed Josephine's lead; also the American, who had known him in New York. Phipps was holding his head a little higher as he left the room.

In ten minutes, he returned. He carried a small packet in his hand, which he laid down before his nephew.

“Try one,” he invited.

Stanley Rees withdrew one of the long cigars from its paper covering.

“Did you go all the way back to the hotel to fetch these?” he asked.

Phipps shook his head.

“I went to fetch my revolver,” he said. “I meant to shoot Wingate. But did you see her, Stanley? She nodded to me—actually smiled!”

“What of it?” the young man asked.

“You're a fool!” his uncle replied. “Pass the brandy.”

The End