Phipps received his visitor with a genial smile and outstretched hand.
"Delighted to see you, Mr. Wingate," he said heartily. "Take a chair, please. I do not know whether you smoke in the mornings, but these Cabanas," he added, opening the box, "are extraordinarily mild and I think quite pleasant."
Wingate refused both the chair and the cigars and appeared not to notice the outstretched hand.
"You will forgive my reminding you, Mr. Phipps," he remarked drily, "that my visit this morning is not one of good-will. I should not be here at all except for Lord Dredlinton's assurance that the business on which you desired to see me has nothing whatever to do with the British and Imperial Granaries."
"Nothing in the world, Mr. Wingate," was the prompt declaration. "We would very much rather receive you here as a friend, but we will, if you choose, respect your prejudices and come to the point at once."
"In one moment."
"You have something to say first?"
"I have," Wingate replied gravely. "I should not willingly have soughtyou out. I do not, as a matter of fact, consider that any director of theBritish and Imperial Granaries deserves even a word of warning. But sinceI am here, I am going to offer it."
"Of warning?" Dredlinton muttered, glancing up nervously.
"Precisely," Wingate assented. "You, Mr. Phipps, and Lord Dredlinton, and your fellow directors, have inaugurated and are carrying on a business, or enterprise, whichever you choose to call it, founded upon an utterly immoral and brutal basis. Your operations in the course of a few months have raised to a ridiculous price the staple food of the poorer classes, at a time when distress and suffering are already amongst them. I have spent a considerable portion of my time since I arrived in England studying this matter, and this is the conclusion at which I have arrived."
"My dear Mr. Wingate, one moment," Phipps intervened. "The magnitude of our operations in wheat has been immensely exaggerated. We are not abnormally large holders. There are a dozen firms in the market, buying."
"Those dozen firms," was the swift reply, "are agents of yours."
"That is a statement which you cannot possibly substantiate," Phipps declared irritably. "It is simply Stock Exchange gossip."
"For once, then," Wingate went on, "Stock Exchange gossip is the truth."
"My dear Mr. Wingate," Phipps expostulated, "if you will discuss this matter, I beg that you will do so as a business man and not as a sentimentalist. Yon know perfectly well that as long as the principles of barter exist, there must be a loser and a gainer."
"The ordinary principles of barter," Wingate contended, "do not apply to material from which the people's food is made. I speak to you as man to man. You have started an enterprise of which I and others declare ourselves the avowed enemies. I am here to warn you, both of you," he added, including Lord Dredlinton with a sweep of his hand, "directors of the British and Imperial Granaries, that unless you release and compel your agents to release such stocks of wheat as will bring bread down to a reasonable price, you stand in personal danger. Is that clear enough?"
"Clear enough," Dredlinton muttered, "but what the mischief does it all mean?"
"You threaten us?" Phipps asked calmly.
"I do indeed," Wingate assented. "I threaten you. I threaten you. Peter Phipps, you, Lord Dredlinton, and I threaten your absent directors. I came over here prepared for something in the nature of a financial duel. I came prepared to match my millions and my brain against yours. I find no inducement to do so. The struggle is uninspiring. My efforts would only prolong it. Quicker means must be found to deal with you."
"You are misled as to your facts, Mr. Wingate," Phipps expostulated. "I can assure you that we are conducting a perfectly legitimate undertaking. We have kept all the time well within the law."
"You may be within the law of the moment," was the stern reply, "but morally you are worse than the most outrageous bucket-shop keepers of Wall Street. Legislation may be slow and Parliament hampered by precedent, but the people have never wanted champions when they have a righteous cause. I tell you that you cannot carry this thing through. Better disgorge your profits and sell while you have a chance."
Dredlinton tapped a cigarette against his desk and lit it.
"My dear fellow," he said, "you really ought to go into Parliament. Such eloquence is rather wasted in a City office."
"I rather imagined that it would be," Wingate assented. "At the same time, I warned you that if I came I should speak my mind."
Phipps did his best for peace. This was his enemy with whom he was now face to face, but the final issue was not yet. He spoke suavely and persuasively.
"Come, come," he said, "Wingate, you have changed since you and I fought our battles in New York and Chicago. To-day you seem to be representing a very worthy but misguided class of the community—the sentimentalists. They are invariably trying to alter by legislation conditions which are automatic. It is true that our operations over here may temporarily make bread dearer, but on the other hand we may be facing the other way within a month. We may be sellers of wheat, and the loaf then will be cheaper than it ever has been. I am an Englishman, and it is not my desire to add to the sufferings of my fellow countrymen."
"You don't care a damn about any one's sufferings," Wingate retorted, "so long as you can make money out of them."
Phipps for once looked a little taken aback.
"My dear sir," he protested, "your trans-Atlantic bluntness is somewhat disconcerting. However, you must admit that we have heard you patiently. Let us now, if you are willing, discuss for a minute or two the real object of your visit."
"I have delivered my warning," Wingate remarked. "I am only sorry that you will not take me more seriously. I am now at your service."
"In plain words, then, I want to purchase your holding in the Universal Steamship Company, a holding amounting, I believe, to one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Wingate effectually concealed a genuine surprise.
"You seem remarkably well informed as to my investments," he observed.
"Not as to your investments generally," Phipps replied, "but as to your holding of Universal stock. In this stock it is my desire to secure a controlling interest."
"Why?"
Phipps hesitated for a moment. Then he replied with much apparent frankness.
"I could invent a dozen reasons. I prefer to tell you the truth and to base my offer upon existing conditions."
"The truth will be very interesting," Wingate murmured, with a note of faint sarcasm in his tone.
"Here are my cards, then, laid upon the table," Phipps continued, rapping the place in front of him with the back of his hand. "An Asiatic Power has offered me an immense commission if I can arrange the sale to them of the Atlantic fleet of the Universal Line."
"For what purpose?"
"Trading purposes between Japan and China," Phipps explained. "The quickest way of bringing about the sale and earning my commission is for me to acquire a controlling interest in the company. I have already a certain number of shares. The possession of yours will give me control. The shares to-day stand at a dollar and an eighth. That would make your holding, Mr. Wingate, worth, say, one million, four hundred thousand dollars. I am going to offer you a premium on the top of that, say one million, six hundred thousand dollars at today's rate of exchange."
"For trading purposes between Japan and China," Wingate reflected.
"That is the scheme," Phipps assented.
Wingate indulged in a few moments' reflection. He had no particular interest in the Universal Steamship Company—a company trading between San Francisco and Japan—and from all that he could remember of their position and prospects, the price was a generous one. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a curious disinclination to part with his shares. The very fact that he knew he was being watched with a certain amount of anxiety stiffened his impulse to retain them.
"A very fair offer, Mr. Phipps, I have no doubt," he said at last. "On the other hand, I am not a seller."
"Not a seller? Not at a quarter premium?"
"Nor a half," Wingate replied, "nor, as a matter of fact, a hundred per cent. premium. You see, I don't trust you, Phipps. You may have told me the truth. You may not. I shall hold my shares for the present."
"Mr. Wingate," Phipps exclaimed incredulously, "you astonish me!"
"Very likely," was the unconcerned reply. "I won't say that I may not change my mind a little later on, if you are still a buyer. Before I did anything, however, I should have a few enquiries to make. If this concludes our business, Mr. Phipps—"
Dredlinton waved a nervous hand towards him.
"One moment, please," he begged, "I have just a few words to say toMr. Wingate."
The latter glanced at the clock.
"I hope you will say them as quickly as possible," he enjoined. "I have a busy morning."
Dredlinton leaned over Phipps' chair. There was a sinister meaning in his hoarse whisper.
"Leave me alone with him for a moment," he suggested. "Perhaps I may be able to earn that two thousand pounds."
Phipps rose at once from his chair and made his way towards the door.
"Lord Dredlinton wishes to have a word with you, Mr. Wingate," he said. "I shall be on the premises, in case by any fortunate chance you should decide to change your mind."
Dredlinton sank into Phipps' vacated chair and leaned back with his hands in his trousers pockets. He had the air of a man fortified by a certain amount of bravado,—stimulated by some evil purpose.
"So you don't want to sell those shares, Mr. Wingate?"
"I have decided not to," was the calm reply.
"Any particular reason?"
"None," Wingate acknowledged, "except that I am not very anxious to have any business relations with Mr. Phipps."
"And for the sake of that prejudice," Dredlinton observed, "you can afford to refuse such a profit as he offered you?"
"I have other reasons for not wishing to sell," Wingate declared. "I have a very high opinion of Mr. Phipps' judgment as a business man. If the shares are worth so much as that to him, they are probably worth the same amount for me to keep."
Lord Dredlinton shook his head.
"Quite a fallacy, Wingate," he pronounced. "Phipps, as a matter of fact, is offering you considerably more than the shares are worth, because with their help he means to bring off a big thing."
"If he relies upon my shares," was the indifferent reply, "I am afraid the big thing won't come off."
"You won't sell, then?"
"No!"
Lord Dredlinton glanced for a moment at his finger nails. He seemed wrapped in abstract thought.
"I wonder if I could induce you to change your mind," he said.
"I am quite sure that you could not."
"Still, I am going to try. You are a great admirer of my wife, I believe,Mr. Wingate?"
Wingate frowned slightly.
"I prefer not to discuss Lady Dredlinton with you," he said curtly.
"Still, you won't mind going so far as to say that you are an admirer of hers?" the latter persisted.
"Well?"
"You are probably her confidant in the unfortunate differences which have arisen between us?"
"If I were, I should not consider it my business to inform you."
"Your sympathy is without doubt on her side?"
Wingate changed his attitude.
"Look here," he said, "this subject is not of my choosing. I should have preferred to avoid it. Since you press me, however, I haven't the faintest hesitation in saying that I look upon your wife as one of the sweetest and best women I ever knew, married, unfortunately, to a person utterly unworthy of her."
Dredlinton started in his place. A little streak of colour flushed up to his eyes.
"What the devil do you mean by that?"
"Look here," Wingate expostulated, "you can't threaten me, Dredlinton. You asked for what you got. Why not save time and explain why you have dragged your wife's name into this business?"
Dredlinton, in his peculiar way, was angry. His speech was a little broken, his eyes glittered.
"Explain? My God, I will! You are one of those damned frauds, Wingate, who pose as a purist and don't hesitate to make capital out of the harmless differences which sometimes arise between husband and wife. You sympathise with Lady Dredlinton, eh?"
"I should sympathise with any woman who was your wife," Wingate assured him, his own temper rising.
Dredlinton leaned a little forward. He spoke with a vicious distinctness.
"You sympathise with her to such an extent that you lure her to your rooms at midnight and send her back when you've—"
Dredlinton's courage oozed out before he had finished his speech. Wingate had swung around towards his companion, and there was something terrifying in his attitude.
"You scoundrel!" he exclaimed.
Dredlinton drew a little farther back and kept his finger upon the bell.
"Look here," he said viciously, "you may as well drop those heroics. I am not talking at random. My wife was seen in your arms, in your rooms at the Milan Court, with her dressing case on the table, last night, by little Flossie Lane, your latest conquest in the musical comedy world. She spent the night at the Milan."
"It's a lie!" Wingate declared, with cold fury. "How the devil couldFlossie Lane see anything of the sort? She was nowhere near my rooms."
"Oh, yes, she was!" Dredlinton assured him. "She just looked in—one look was quite enough. Didn't you hear the door slam?"
"My God!" Wingate muttered, with a sudden instinct of recollection.
"Perhaps you wonder why she came?" the other continued. "I will tell you. I followed my wife to the Milan—I thought it might be worth while. I saw her enter the lift and come up to your room. While I was hesitating as to what to do, I met Flossie. Devilish clever idea of mine! I determined to kill two birds with one stone. I told her you'd been enquiring for her—that you were alone in your rooms and would like to see her. She went up like a two-year-old. Jove, you ought to have seen her face when she came down!"
"You cad!" Wingate exclaimed. "Your wife simply came to beg my intervention with the management to secure her a room in the—"
"Chuck it!" Dredlinton interrupted. "You're a man of the world. You know very well that I can get a divorce, and I'm going to have it—if I want it. I am meeting Flossie Lane at midday at my solicitor's. What have you got to say about that?"
"That if you keep your word it will be a very happy release for your wife," Wingate replied drily.
Dredlinton leaned across the desk. There was an almost satyrlike grin upon his face.
"You are a fool," he said. "My wife wants to get rid of me—you and she have talked that over, I have no doubt—but not this way. She is a proud woman, Wingate. The one desire of her life is to be free, but you can take this from me—if I bring my suit and gain my decree on the evidence I shall put before the court—-don't forget Flossie Lane, will you?—she'll never raise her head again. That is what I am going to do, unless—"
He paused.
"Unless what?" Wingate demanded.
"Unless you sell those shares to Peter Phipps."
Wingate was silent for a few moments. He studied his companion appraisingly.
"Dredlinton," he said at last, "I did you an injustice."
"I am glad that you are beginning to appreciate the fact," the other replied, with some dignity. "I welcome your confession."
"I looked upon you," Wingate continued, "as only an ordinary, weak sort of scoundrel. I find you one of the filthiest blackguards who ever crawled upon the earth."
Dredlinton scowled for a moment and then laughed in a hard, unnatural sort of way.
"I can't lose my temper with you, Wingate—upon my word, I can't. You are so delightfully crude and refreshing. Your style, however, is a little more suited to your own country, don't you think—the Far West and that sort of thing. Shall I draft a little agreement that you will sell the shares to Phipps? Just a line or two will be sufficient."
Wingate made no reply. He walked across to the frosted window and gazed out of the upper panes up to the sky. Presently he returned.
"Where is your wife?" he asked.
"She telephoned from the Milan this morning, discovered that the young lady to whom she had such unfounded objections had left, and returned in a taxi just before I started for the office."
"Supposing I sell these shares?"
"Then," Dredlinton promised, "I shall endeavour to forget the incident of last night. Further than that, I might indeed be tempted, if it were made worth my while, to provide my wife with a more honourable mode of escape."
"You're wonderful," Wingate declared, nodding his head quickly. "What are you going to get for blackmailing me into selling those shares?"
"Two thousand pounds."
"Get along and earn it, then."
Dredlinton wrote in silence for several moments. Then he read the document over to himself.
"'I, John Wingate—all my shares in the Universal Steamship Company, and accept herewith as a deposit.' There, Mr. Wingate, I think you will find that correct. Phipps shall write you a cheque Immediately."
He touched the bell. Phipps entered almost at the same moment.
"I am pleased to tell you," Dredlinton announced, "that I have inducedMr. Wingate to see reason. He will sell the shares."
"My congratulations!" Phipps ventured, with a broad smile. "Mr. Wingate has made a most wise and acceptable decision."
"Will you make out a cheque for ten thousand pounds as a deposit?" Dredlinton continued. "Mr. Wingate will then sign the agreement I have drawn up on the lines of the memorandum you left on the desk."
"With pleasure," was the brisk reply.
Wingate took up a pen, glanced through the agreement, and was on the point of signing his name when a startled exclamation from the man by his side caused him to glance up. The door had been opened. Harrison was standing there, looking a little worried. His tone was almost apologetic.
"The Countess of Dredlinton," he announced.
The arrival of Josephine affected very differently the three men, to whom her coming was equally surprising. Her husband, after an exclamation which savoured of profanity, 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 really given up hoping that you would ever honour us with your presence."
"You can chuck all that, Phipps," Dredlinton interrupted curtly. "My wife hasn't come here to bandy civilities. What do you want, madam?" he demanded, moving a step nearer to her.
She held a slip of paper in her hand and unfolded it before their eyes.
"My husband," she said, "has justly surmised that I have not come here in any spirit of friendliness, I have come to let Mr. Wingate know the contents of this cable, which arrived soon after my husband left the house this morning. 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. Please listen, Mr. Wingate."
All the apparent good humour had faded from Phipps' face. He struck the table with his fist.
"Dredlinton," he insisted, "you must use your authority. That message is a private one. It must not be read."
Wingate moved to Josephine's side.
"Must not?" he repeated under his breath.
"It is a private message from a correspondent in New York, who is a personal friend of Lord Dredlinton's," Phipps declared. "It is of no concern to any one except ourselves. Dredlinton, you must make your wife understand—"
"Understand?" Dredlinton broke in. "Give me that message, madam."
He snatched at it. Wingate leaned over and swung him on one side. For a single moment Phipps, too, seemed about to attempt force. Then, with an ugly little laugh, he recovered himself.
"My dear Lady Dredlinton, let me reason with you," he begged. "On this occasion Mr. Wingate is in opposition to our interests, your husband's and mine. You cannot—"
"Let Lady Dredlinton read the cable," Wingate interposed.
It was done before any further interference was possible. Wingate stood at her side, grim and threatening. The words had left her lips before either of the other men could shout her down.
"It is a night message from New York," she said. "Listen: 'Confirm eleven steamers Universal 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. Dredlinton opened his lips and closed them again. 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," he went on, "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 a 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 Universal 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. She did not hesitate even for a second. Her tone was proud and insistent.
"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 in halves the agreement which he had been holding. Dredlinton leaned over the desk, snatched at the telephone receiver, threw himself into his chair, and, glared first at Wingate and then at his wife.
"My God, then," he exclaimed furiously, "I'll keep my word!—Mayfair 67.—I'll drag you through the dust, my lady," he went on. "You shall be the heroine of one of those squalid divorce cases you've spoken of so scornfully. You shall crawl through life a divorcee, made an honest woman through the generosity of an American adventurer!—67, Mayfair, I said."
Phipps shook his head sorrowfully.
"My friend," he said, "this is useless bluster. Put down the telephone. Let us talk the matter out squarely. Your methods are a little too melodramatic."
"Go to hell!" 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 67?—What's that?—An urgent call?—Well, go on, then. Out with it.—Who's speaking? Mr. Stanley Rees' servant?—Yes, yes! I'm Lord Dredlinton. Get on with it."
There was a moment of intense silence. Dredlinton was listening, indifferently at first, then as though spellbound, his lips a little parted, his cheeks colourless, his eyes filled with a strange terror. Presently he laid down the receiver, although he failed to replace it. He turned very slowly around, and his eyes, still filled with a haunting fear, sought Wingate's.
"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! No one has seen or heard of him since!"
"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 towards the door. From the threshold he looked back, waiting whilst Josephine joined him.
"Youth," he said calmly, "must be served. Stanley Rees was, I believe, the youngest director on the Board of the British and 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."
"Go to hell!" Phipps shouted, his face black with rage.
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. You're making it still."
"Good!" Wingate commented, with a nod of satisfaction. "I dare say I shall need it all. Close up everything, Kendrick."
"The devil! One or two of your things are going strong, you know."
"Take profits and close up," Wingate directed. "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 in the House?" Wingate enquired, 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.
"Nothing definite. I've been studying their methods for some time. What they've been trying to do practically is to corner wheat. No one has ever succeeded in doing it yet. I don't think they will. My belief is that they are coming to the end of their tether, and there is still a large shipment of wheat which will be afloat next week."
Kendrick answered an enquiry through the telephone and leaned back in his chair.
"Wingate," he said, "I'm not sure that I actually agree with you about the B. & I. They have a wonderful system of subsidiary companies, and their holdings of wheat throughout the country are enormous,—all bought, mind you, at much below to-day's price. If they were to realise to-day, they'd realise an enormous profit. Personally, it seems to me that they've made their money and they can realise practically when they like. The price of wheat can't slump sufficiently to put them in Queer Street."
"The price of wheat is coming down, though, and coming down within the next ten days," Wingate pronounced.
Kendrick stretched out his hand towards the cigarettes and passed the box across to his friend.
"Why do you think so?" he asked bluntly. "According to accounts, the harvests all over the world are disastrous. There is less wheat being shipped here than ever before in the world's history. I can conceive that we may have reached the top, and that the price may decline a few points from now onwards, but even that would make very little difference. I can't see the slightest chance of any material fall in wheat."
"I can," Wingate replied. "Don't worry, Ken. No need to dash into the business like a Chicago booster. Just go at it quietly but unwaveringly. I suppose a good many of the B. & I. commissions are still open, and there's bound to be a little buying elsewhere, but I'm a seller of wheat, too, wherever there's any business doing. Wheat's coming down; so are the B. & I. shares. I'm not giving you verbal orders. Here's your warrant."
He drew a sheet of note paper towards 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? He's a perfect devil for cunning, that man, and he's simply been waiting for your coming. I think it was the disappointment of his life when you first came down to the City and left him alone. You've shown wonderful restraint, old chap. You're sure you haven't been goaded into this?"
Wingate smiled.
"Don't you worry about me, Ken," he begged. "Of course, in a manner of speaking, this is a duel between Phipps and myself, and if you were to ask my advice which to back, I don't know that I should care to take the responsibility of giving it. At the same time, 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."
"Lady Dredlinton, by any chance?" Kendrick asked.
"Lady Dredlinton, certainly."
"I'll turn up soon after one. And, Wingate."
"Well?"
"Don't think I'm a croaker, but I know Peter Phipps. There isn't a man on this earth I'd fear more as an enemy. He's unscrupulous, untrustworthy, and an unflinching hater. You and he are hard up against one another, I know, and I suppose you realise that your growing friendship with Josephine Dredlinton is simply hell for him."
"I imagine you know that his attentions to her have been entirely unwelcome," Wingate said calmly.
"I will answer for it that she has never encouraged him for a moment," Kendrick assented, "yet Phipps is one of those men who never take 'no' for an answer, who simply don't know what it is to despair of a thing. I've been watching that ménage for the last twelve months, and I've watched Peter Phipps fighting his grim battle. I think I was one of the party when he first met her. Since then, though the fellow has any amount of tact, his pursuit of her must have been a persecution. He put Dredlinton on the Board of the B. & I., solely to buy his way into the household. He sent him home one day in a new car—a present to his wife. She has never ridden in it and she made her husband return it."
"I know," Wingate muttered. "I've heard a little of this, and seen it, too."
"Well, there you are," Kendrick concluded. "You know Phipps. You know what it must seem like to him to have another man step in, just as he may have been flattering himself that he was gaining ground. He hated you before. He'd give his soul, if he had one to break you now."
"He'll do what he can, Ken," said Wingate, with a smile, as he left the office, "but you may take it that the odds are a trifle on us.—Not later than one-thirty, then."
"There is no doubt," he remarked a moment later, as he stepped into his car, where Josephine was waiting for him, "that we are at war."
She laughed quietly. The excitement of those last few minutes in the offices of the British and Imperial Granaries had acted like a stimulant. She had lost entirely her tense and depressed air. The colour of her eyes was newly discovered in the light that played there.
"You couldn't have fired the first shot in more dramatic fashion," she declared. "Even Mr. Phipps lost his nerve for a moment, and I thought that Henry was going to collapse altogether. I wonder what they are doing now."
"Ringing up Scotland Yard, or on their way there, I should think,"Wingate replied.
She shivered for a moment.
"You are not afraid of the police, are you?" she asked.
"I don't think we need be," he replied cheerfully, "unless we have bad luck. Of course, I have had professional advice as to all the details. The thing has been thought out step by step, almost scientifically. Slate is a marvellous fellow, and I think he has gathered up every loose end. Makes one realise how easy crime would be if one went into it unflurried and with a clear conscience.—Tell me, by the by, was it by accident that you opened that cable this morning?"
"Not entirely," she confessed. "I was in the library this morning talking to Grant, my new butler."
"Satisfactory, I trust?" Wingate murmured.
"A paragon," she replied, with a little gleam in her eyes. "Well, on Henry's desk was the rough draft of a cable, torn into pieces, and on one of them, larger than the rest, I couldn't help seeing your name. It looked as though Henry had been sending a cable in which you were somehow concerned. While I was there, the reply came, so I decided to open and decode it. Directly I realised what it was about, I brought it straight to the office, hoping to catch you there."
"You are a most amazing woman," he declared.
She leaned a little towards him.
"And you are a most likable man," she murmured.
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. The last three times our dear host has been over to England, as soon as I have enquired after his health and his business, and whether the right woman has turned up yet, I ask him when he's going to take me to lunch at the Milan. I do love lunching in a restaurant," she confided to Kendrick, who sat at her other side, "and nearly all my friends prefer their stodgy dining rooms."
"Have you heard the news, aunt?" Sarah asked across the table.
"About that silly little Mrs. Liddiard Green, do you mean, and JackFulton? I hear they were seen in Paris together last week."
"Pooh! Who cares about Mrs. Liddiard Green!" Sarah scoffed. "I mean the news about Jimmy. 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. This is his first morning. He must be busy or he'd have been here before now. Jimmy's never late for meals."
"Hm!" Lady Amesbury grunted. "I expect he has to stay and mind the office while Mr. White gets his lunch."
"Considering," Sarah rejoined with dignity, "that there are seventeen other clerks, besides office boys and typists, and Jimmy has a room to himself, that doesn't seem likely. I expect he's doing a big deal for somebody or other."
"Thank God it isn't me!" her aunt declared. "I love Jimmy—every one does—but he wasn't born for business."
"We shall see," Sarah observed. "My own opinion of Jimmy is that his mental gifts are generally underrated."
"You're not prejudiced, by any chance, are you?" Kendrick asked, smiling.
"That is my dispassionate opinion," Sarah pronounced, "and I don't want any peevish remarks from you, Roger Kendrick. You're jealous because you let Mr. White get in ahead of you and secure Jimmy. It was only three days ago that we agreed he should go into the City. He was perfectly sweet about it, too. He was playing for the M.C.C. to-morrow, and polo at Ranelagh on Saturday."
"Is he giving them both up?" Kendrick enquired.
"He's giving up the cricket, of course, unless he finds that it happens to be a slack day in the City," Sarah replied. "As for the polo, well, no one works on Saturday afternoon, do they?"
"How is my friend, Mr. Peter Phipps?" Lady Amesbury demanded. "The big man who looked like a professional millionaire? Is he making a man of that bad husband of yours, Josephine?"
"They spend a good deal of time together," Josephine replied. "I don't think he'll ever succeed in making a business man out of Henry, though, any more than Mr. White will out of Jimmy."
A familiar form approached the table. Sarah welcomed him with a wave of her hand. The Honourable 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.
"Can 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.
"Absolutely feverish rush ever since I got there," he declared. "Don't know how long my nerves will stand it. Telephones ringing, men rushing out of the office without their hats, and bumping into you without saying 'by your leave' or 'beg your pardon,' or any little civility of that sort, and good old Maurice, with his hair standing up on end, shouting into two telephones at the same time, and dictating a letter to one of the peachiest little bits of fluff I've seen outside the front rows for I don't know how long."
"Jimmy," Sarah said sternly, "I'm not sure that the City is going to suit you. You don't have to dictate letters to her, do you?"
"No such luck," Jimmy sighed. "She is the Chief's own particular property. Does a thousand words a minute and knits a jumper at the same time."
"Whom do you dictate your letters to?" Sarah demanded.
"To tell you the truth," Jimmy answered, falling on his cocktail, "I haven't had any to write yet."
"What has your work been?" Lady Amesbury asked.
"Kind of superintending," the young man explained, "looking on at everything—getting the hang of it, you know."
"Are the other men there nice?" Sarah enquired.
"Well, we don't seem to have had much time for conversation yet," Jimmy replied, attacking his caviar like a man anxious to make up for lost time. "I heard one chap tell another that I'd come to give tone to the establishment, which seemed to me a pleasant and friendly way of looking at it."
"You didn't have any commissions yourself?" 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 enquired with interest.
"I told him I hadn't got any," was the injured reply. "He went cut like a streak of damp lightning. I heard him kicking up an awful hullaballoo in the next office."
"Jimmy," Sarah said reproachfully, "that might have been your first client. You ought to have made a business of finding him some B. & I.'s."
"There might have been some in a drawer or somewhere," Lady Amesbury suggested.
"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. First day and all that sort of thing, you know. I tell you what," he went on, "all the excitement and that gives you an appetite for your food."
The manager of the restaurant, on his way through the room, recognisedWingate and came to pay his respects.
"Did you hear about the little trouble over in the Court, Mr. Wingate?" he enquired.
"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, Mr. Wingate," he said,—"has the suite just underneath yours—Mr. Stanley Rees, his name is—disappeared last night."
"Disappeared?" Lady Amesbury repeated.
"Stanley Rees?" Kendrick exclaimed.
The manager nodded.
"A very pleasant young gentleman," he continued, "wealthy, too. He is a nephew of Mr. Peter Phipps, Chairman of the Directors of the British and Imperial Granaries. 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."
"Sounds like the 'Arabian Nights,'" Jimmy declared. "Probably found he was a bit late for his grub and went on without his coat and hat."
"What about not coming back all night, sir?" the manager asked.
"Lads will be lads," Jimmy answered sententiously.
The manager showed an entire lack of sympathy with his attitude.
"Mr. Stanley Rees," he said, "is a remarkably well-conducted, quiet young gentleman, very popular here amongst the domestics, and noted for keeping very early hours. He was engaged to dine out at Hampstead with some friends, who telephoned for him several times during the evening. He was also supping here with a gentleman who arrived and waited an hour for him."
"Was he in good health?" Wingate enquired casually.
"Excellent, I should say, sir," the manager replied. "He was a young gentleman who took remarkably good care of himself."
"I know the sort," Jimmy said complacently, watching his glass being filled. "A whisky and soda when the doctor orders it, and ginger ale with his luncheon."
The manager was called away. Kendrick had become thoughtful.
"Queer thing," he remarked, "that young Rees should have disappeared just as the B. & I. have become a feature on 'Change. He was Phipps' right-hand man in financial matters."
"Disappearances in London seem a little out of date," Wingate remarked, as he scrutinised the dish which themaître d'hôtelhad brought for his inspection. "The missing person generally turns up and curses the scaremongers.—Lady Amesbury, this Maryland chicken is one of our favourite New York dishes. Kendrick, have some more wine. Wilshaw, your appetite has soon flagged."
"All the same," Kendrick mused, "it's a dashed queer thing aboutStanley Rees."
After his guests had departed, Wingate had a few minutes alone withJosephine.
"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, brown-stone building."
"If there's the slightest hitch, you'll let me hear, won't you?" he begged. "The telephone is on to my room, and anything that happens unforeseen—remember this, Josephine—is a complete surprise to you. Everything is arranged so that you are not implicated in any way."
"Pooh!" she scoffed. "Nothing will happen. You are invincible, John. You will conquer with these men as you have with 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."
Wingate, after several strenuous hours spent in Slate's office, returned to his rooms late that night, to find Peter Phipps awaiting him. There was something vaguely threatening about the bulky figure of the man standing gloomily upon the hearth rug, all the spurious good nature gone from his face, his brows knitted, his cheeks hanging a little and unusually pale. Wingate paused on the threshold of the room and his hand crept into his pocket. Phipps seemed to notice the gesture and shook his head.
"Nothing quite so crude, Wingate," he said. "I know an enemy when I see one, but 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 anybody as conscienceless as you. I don't want you here, Phipps. I didn't ask you to come and see me. I've nothing to discuss with you."
"There are times," Phipps replied, "when the issue which cannot be fought out to the end with arms can be joined in the council chamber. I have come to know your terms."
Wingate shook his head.
"I don't understand. It is too soon for this sort of thing. You are not beaten yet."
"I am tired," his visitor muttered. "May I sit down?"
"You are an unwelcome guest," Wingate replied coldly, "but sit if you will. Then say what you have to say and go."
Phipps sank into an easy-chair. It was obvious that he was telling the truth so far as regarded his fatigue. He seemed to have aged ten years.
"I have been down below in Stanley's rooms," he explained, "been through his papers. It's true what the inspector fellow reports. 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."
Wingate indulged in a curious bout of silence. He took a pipe from a rack, filled it leisurely with tobacco, lit it and smoked for several moments. Then he turned towards his unwelcome companion.
"I am debarred by a promise made to myself," he said coldly, "from offering you any form of hospitality. If you wish to smoke, I shall not interfere."
Phipps shook his head.
"I have not smoked all the evening," he confessed, "I cannot. You are right when you say that we are not beaten, but I like to look ahead. I want to know your terms."
"You are anxious about your nephew?"
"Yes!"
"And why do you connect me with his disappearance?"
Phipps gave a little weary gesture.
"I am so sick of words," he said.
"We will argue the matter, then," conceded Wingate, "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?"
Wingate picked up a newspaper and glanced at it, pulled a heavy gold pencil from his chain and made a few calculations.
"Your operations in wheat," he said, "have brought the loaf which should cost the working man a matter of sevenpence up to two shillings. You seem to have dabbled in a good many other products, too, the price of which you have forced up into the clouds,—just those products which are necessary to the working man. But we will leave those alone, 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, with a sudden almost fierce break in his voice, "the day after would probably be too late. There are a great many hungry people in the north. There are a great many who are starving. 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 myself! I shall tell them what you have said. I shall denounce you!"
"My dear fellow," Wingate scoffed, "you have done that already. You have induced those very excellent upholders of English law and liberty to set a plain-clothes man to following me about. I can assure you that he has had a very pleasant and a very busy evening."
Phipps rose to his feet.
"Wingate," he exclaimed, "curse you!"
"A very natural sentiment. I hope that you may repeat it a good many times before the end comes."
"You are a conspirator—a criminal!" Phipps continued, his voice shaking with excitement. "You are breaking the laws of the country. I shall see that you are in gaol before the week is out!"
"A good deal of what you say is true," Wingate admitted, "with the possible exception of the latter part. Believe me, Peter 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, you are a hard enemy," he said at last. "Will you treat?"
"I have named the price."
"You are a fool!" Phipps almost shouted. "Do you know," he went on, striking the table with his clenched fist, "that what you suggest would cost five million pounds?"
"You and your friends can stand it," was the unruffled reply. "If not, your brokers can share the loss."
"That means you make a bankrupt of me?" Phipps demanded hoarsely.
"Why not?" Wingate replied. "It's been a long duel between us, Phipps, and I mean this to be the final bout."
Phipps moved his position a little uneasily. He was keeping himself under control, but the veins were standing out upon his forehead, his frame seemed tense with passion.
"Tell me, Wingate, is it still the girl?"
Wingate looked across at him. His face and tone were alike relentless, his eyes shone 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."
"She was nothing to you," Phipps muttered sullenly.
"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 out 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. Time was short. Every one knew that your office was conducted on sound business lines. 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 towards 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. I have let you talk. I have answered your useless questions. Be so good as to leave me."
The shadow of impending disaster seemed to have found its way intoPhipps' bones. He seemed to have lost alike his courage and his dignity.
"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," Wingate answered.
"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 cheque book in my pocket. You can fight the B. & I. to the death, if you will—commercially, politically, anyhow—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 for a moment, every nerve in his body aching for the fight. Then he remembered.
"Get home to your kennel, Phipps," he ordered.
Then he slammed the door and locked it.