"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 kept their servants."
"I do, as a rule," was the quiet reply, "only sometimes Henry intervenes. If there is one thing that the modern servant dislikes, it is sarcasm, and sarcasm is Henry's favourite weapon when he wants to be really disagreeable. Generally speaking, I think a servant would rather be sworn at."
"You seem to have made a clean sweep this time."
Josephine stirred her coffee thoughtfully.
"Henry has been having one of his bad weeks," she said. "He has been absolutely impossible to every one. 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 any one but you and Jimmy to dinner to-night. I wasn't at all sure how things would turn out. Besides, it isn't every one I'd care to ask into this dungeon of a room."
"I was wondering why we were here, Josephine," Sarah remarked, looking around her. "It used to be one of your hospital rooms, surely?"
Josephine nodded.
"The other rooms want turning out, dear. I knew you wouldn't mind."
There are women as well as men who have learnt 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?" her hostess enquired, with interest.
"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."
"I am sure I wish you luck," Josephine said earnestly. "I am very fond of Jimmy."
"He is rather a dear."
"I wonder how you'll like settling down. It will be a very different life for you."
"Of course," Sarah admitted with a sigh, "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 debut 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 realise at last that I am the only person likely to keep Jimmy out of mischief. He is such a booby sometimes, and yet, somehow or other, you know, Josephine, I've never wanted to marry anybody else. I don't understand why, but there it is."
"That's the right feeling, dear, so long as you're sure," Josephine declared cheerfully.
Sarah 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, "as though you were taking a little more interest in life. I've seen quite a wonderful light in your eyes, now and then."
"Ridiculous!"
"It isn't ridiculous, and I'm delighted about it," Sarah went on. "You must know, dear, that I am not quite an idiot, and I am too fond of you not to notice any change."
"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 any one cared for me as much as he does for you, I'd—"
She stopped short and looked towards 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, as he answered, "Oh, it can be done, my dear young lady." He paused and looked at her disagreeably, "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 around 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. "How dared you only stay away a quarter of an hour, Jimmy! 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 damned 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."
"Every one seems to know about his disappearance," Jimmy remarked. "They were all talking about it at the club to-day."
"What do they say?" Lord Dredlinton asked eagerly. "They all leave off talking about it when I am round."
"Blooming mystery," the young man pronounced. "That's the conclusion every one seems to arrive at. A chap I know, whose chauffeur pals up with Rees' valet, told me that he's been having heaps of threatening letters from fellows who'd got the knock over the B. & I. He seemed to think they'd done him in."
Dredlinton shivered nervously.
"It's perfectly abominable," he declared. "Here we are supposed to have the finest police system in the world, and yet a man can disappear from his rooms in the very centre of London, and no one has even 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. case does seem to be a remarkably unpopular undertaking."
Dredlinton kicked a footstool out of his way, frowning angrily.
"The B. & I. is only an ordinary business concern," he 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 those confounded Americans. Why can't they mind their own business!"
"It isn't very long," Josephine remarked drily, "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, great Scot, I believe they're going to get it!"
"Damned 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, and one of my cylinders is missing. 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 towards 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, and the new butler ushered in a tall, thin man dressed in morning clothes of somewhat severe cut.
"Inspector Shields, my lord," he announced.
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 unsatisfactory! Most disappointing!"
"I was afraid that you might find it so," the inspector assented.
Josephine turned in her chair and contemplated the latter with some interest. He was quietly dressed in well-cut but unobtrusive clothes. His long, narrow face had features of sensibility. His hair was grizzled a little at the temples. His composure seemed part of the man, passive and imperturbable.
"Isn't a disappearance of this sort rather unusual?" she enquired.
"Most unusual, your ladyship," the man admitted. "I scarcely remember a similar case."
"'Unusual' seems to me a mild word!" Dredlinton exclaimed angrily. "Here is a well-known young man, with friends in every circle of life and engagements at every hour, a partner in an important commercial undertaking, who is absolutely removed from his rooms in one of the best-known hotels in London, and at the end of three days the police are powerless to find out what has become of him!"
"Up to the present, my lord," the inspector confessed, "we certainly have no clue."
"But, dash it all, you must have some idea as to what has become of him?" his questioner insisted. "Young men don't disappear through the windows of the Milan Bar, do they?"
"If you assure us, my lord, that we may rule out any idea of a voluntary disappearance—"
"Voluntary disappearance be damned!" Dredlinton interrupted. "Don't let me hear any more of such rubbish! I can assure you that such a supposition is absolutely out of the question."
"Then in that case, my lord, I may put it to you that Mr. Rees' disappearance is due to the action of no ordinary criminal or blackmailer, but is part of a much more deeply laid scheme."
"Exactly what do you mean?" was the almost fierce demand.
"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 and Imperial Granaries, Limited?" his interlocutor enquired.
"That, I believe, is the name of the company."
Lord Dredlinton's anxiety visibly increased. He was standing underneath the suspended globe of the electric light, his fingers nervously pulling to pieces the cigarette which he had been smoking. There was a look of fear in his weak eyes. Josephine surveyed him thoughtfully. The coward in him had flared up, and there was no room for any other characteristic. Fear was written in his face, trembled in his tone, betrayed itself in his gestures.
"But, dash it all," he expostulated, "there are other directors! I am one myself. Don't you see how serious this all is? If Rees can be spirited away and no one be able to lift up a finger to help him, what about the rest of us?"
"It was in my mind to warn your lordship," Shields observed.
Dredlinton's fear merged into fury,—a blind and nerveless passion.
"But this is outrageous!" he exclaimed, striking the table with his fist. "Do you mean to say that you can come here to me from Scotland Yard—to me, a peer of England, living in the heart of London—and tell me that a friend and a business connection of mine has been kidnapped and practically warn me against the same fate? What on earth do we pay our police for? What sort of a country are we living in? Are you all nincompoops?"
"We remain what we are, notwithstanding your lordship's opinion," the inspector answered, with a shade of sarcasm in his level tone. "I may add that I am not the only one engaged in this Investigation, and I can only do my duty according to the best of my ability."
"You've done nothing—nothing at all!" Dredlinton protested angrily. "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 and Imperial Granaries is a perfectly legitimate company doing a perfectly legitimate business. We're not out for our health—who is in the City? If we can make money out of wheat, it's our business and nobody else's."
The inspector was a little weary, but he continued without any sign of impatience.
"I know nothing about the British and 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. Crime of every sort is detected sooner or later, except in the case, say, of a single-handed murder, or an offence of that nature. In the present instance, there is evidence that a very large number of persons were concerned, and detection finally becomes, therefore, a certainty. In the meantime, 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 bodyguard. If any one dares to interfere with me, I'll—I'll shoot them! What happens to a man, Inspector, if he shoots another in self-defence, eh?"
"It depends upon the circumstances, my lord," was the cautious reply. "The law in England requires self-defence to be very clearly established."
Dredlinton moved to the sideboard, poured himself out a liqueur and drank it off.
"Will you take something. Inspector?" he asked, turning around.
"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, Inspector—-but put yourself in my position now. 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 kidnapped?"
"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' disappearance will not be brought to justice. But I considered 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' 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 towards his visitor, "and remember, Mr. Phipps has offered five hundred pounds for the discovery of the person who is responsible for his nephew's disappearance."
Shields made no movement towards 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. And I want you to remember this—do rub it into your Chief—I have already called to see him twice, and it doesn't seem to me that the authorities are looking upon our position seriously enough. We have a right to the utmost protection the law can give us, and further, I must insist upon it that every effort is made to discover Mr. Rees before it is too late."
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 around with a little gesture of anger.
"Every damned thing that happens, nowadays, seems designed to irritate me!" he exclaimed. "That man Shields is nothing but a poopstick!"
"I differ from you entirely," Josephine declared. "I thought that he seemed a very intelligent person, with unusual powers of self-restraint."
"Shows what your judgment is worth! I can't think what Scotland Yard are about, to put the greatest lout they have in the service on to an important business like this. And what the mischief are we always changing servants for? There were two new men at dinner, and that butler of yours gives me the creeps. What on earth has become of Jacob?"
"You told Jacob yourself to go to hell, a few days ago," Josephine reminded him. "You can scarcely expect any self-respecting butler to stand your continual abuse."
"Or a self-respecting wife, eh?" he sneered.
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 yourself, eh?"
"Precisely what I intend to do before long."
"Well, then, why don't you do it?" he demanded brutally. "You think that everything I said the other day was bluff, eh, and that Stanley Rees' disappearance has driven everything else out of my head? Well, you're wrong, madam. 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, moving from his place and standing before her with his hands in his pockets, "that you want to get rid of me, eh?"
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 scarcely help your case."
Dredlinton stood and glared at his wife, his eyes narrowing, his mean little mouth curled.
"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. I am getting a little suspicious about your friend, my lady. I have given them the tip at Scotland Yard and I only hope they take advantage of it."
"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 threatening letters a day? Men take me on one side and reason with me in the club. I had a Cabinet Minister at the office this afternoon. I begin to get the cold shoulder wherever I turn, but, damn it all, 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 towards the door.
"Josephine," he said, looking back, "do you know you are one of the few women in the world I can't even talk to? You freeze me up every time I try. 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.
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. Her vigil came suddenly to an end, as the door was opened and closed again a little abruptly. It was no servant who had obeyed her summons; it was Wingate who entered, unannounced and alone.
"Everything goes well?" he asked, as he advanced rapidly into the room.
"Absolutely!"
"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, blinking a little as he gazed into the room. He recognized Wingate with a start of amazement.
"Wingate?" he exclaimed. "Why the mischief didn't any one tell me you were here?"
"Mr. Wingate called to see me," Josephine replied.
There was an ugly curl upon Dredlinton's lips. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Then his truculent attitude suddenly vanished without the slightest warning. 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. His attitude, as he turned once more towards the other man, was distinctly conciliatory.
"Wingate," he invited, "sit down, won't you, and smoke a cigar with me. Let us have a reasonable chat together, I am perfectly convinced that there is nothing for us to quarrel about."
"Since when have you come to that conclusion, Lord Dredlinton?" Wingate asked, without abandoning his somewhat uncompromising attitude.
"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 a decent fellow—an ordinary human being, you know? You are not exactly my sort, but I am sure you're a man of honour, 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,"Wingate declared, "are not sentiments of friendship."
Dredlinton paused in the act of lighting a cigar.
"What's that?" he 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 lit his cigar and threw himself back into his chair.
"Well, you don't mince matters," he muttered.
"I see no reason why I should," was the calm reply.
"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 or whom shall we discuss? Choose your own subject."
"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?"
"Concerned in it?" Wingate repeated. "I think I can venture a little further than that."
"What do you mean?" was the startled query.
"I mean that I was and am entirely responsible for it."
Dredlinton's cigar fell from his fingers. For the moment he forgot to pick it up. Then he stooped and with shaking fingers threw it into the grate. When he confronted Wingate again, his face was deadly pale. He seemed, indeed, on the point of collapse.
"Why have you done this?" he faltered. "Tell me what you mean, man, when you say that you were responsible for his disappearance?"
"You are curious? Perhaps a little superstitious, a little nervous about yourself, eh?"
"What the devil have you done with Stanley Rees?" Dredlinton demanded.
Wingate smiled.
"Rees," he said, "as I reminded you, is the youngest of the British andImperial directors. Let me see, next to him would come Phipps, I suppose.Martin, as you may have heard, left for Paris this morning—ostensibly. Ihave 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 by, have you heard anything of Phipps lately? Why not ring up and enquire about his health?"
Dredlinton stared a little wildly at the speaker. Then he hurried to the telephone, snatched up the receiver and talked into it, his eyes all the time fixed upon Wingate in a sort of frightened stare.
"Mayfair 365," 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 away from the telephone for a moment. He dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse.
"Something unusual seems to have happened," Wingate remarked softly.
Dredlinton was listening once more to the voice at the other end of the telephone.
"You've tried his club? Eh? And the restaurant where he was to have dined? What do you say? Kept them waiting and never turned up? You've rung up the police?—What do they say?—Doing their best?—My God!"
The receiver slipped from his nerveless fingers. He turned around to face Wingate, crouching over the table, his arms resting upon it, his eyes blood-shot, a slave to abject fear.
"Peter Phipps has disappeared!" he gasped weakly.
The atmosphere of the room seemed to have completely changed during the last few minutes. Wingate was no longer the conventional and casual caller. His face had hardened, his eyes were brighter, his manner ominous. He was the modern figure of Fate, playing for a desperate stake with cold and deadly earnestness. Dredlinton was simply panic-stricken. He was white to the lips; his eyes were filled with the frightened gleam of the trapped animal; he shook and twitched in a paroxysm of nervous collapse. He seemed terrified yet fascinated by the strange metamorphosis in his visitor.
"This is your doing?" he cried.
"It is my doing," Wingate admitted, with his eyes still fixed upon the other's face.
Dredlinton stumbled to the fireplace, found the bell and pressed it violently. A gleam of reassurance came to him.
"My servants shall hear you repeat that!" he exclaimed. "I will have them all in to witness your confession. You are pleading guilty to a crime! I shall send out for the police! I shall hand you over from here!"
"Not a bad idea," Wingate acknowledged. "By the by, though," he added, a moment or two later, "your servants don't seem in a great hurry to answer that bell."
Dredlinton pressed it more violently than ever. By listening intently both men could hear its faraway summons. But nothing happened. The house itself seemed empty. There was not even the sound of a footfall.
"You will really have to change your servants," Wingate continued. "Fancy not answering a bell! They must hear it pealing away. Still, you have the telephone. Why not ring up Scotland Yard direct?"
Dredlinton, dazed now with terror, took his fingers from the bell and snatched up the telephone receiver. All the time his eyes were riveted upon his companion's, their weak depths filled with a nameless horror.
"Quick!" he shouted down the receiver. "Scotland Yard! Put me straight through to Scotland Yard!—Can you hear me, Exchange? I am Lord Dredlinton, 1887 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 said 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 the bell.I seem to be speaking through the telephone to a dead world."
"If you really want some one, I dare say I can help you," Wingate replied. "The telephone was disconnected by my orders, as soon as you had spoken to Phipps' rooms. But—now you are only wasting your time."
Dredlinton had rushed to the door, shaken the handle violently, only to find it locked. He pommelled with his fists upon the panels.
"Come, come," his companion expostulated, "there is really no need for such extremes. You want something, perhaps? Allow me."
Wingate crossed the room, rang the bell three times quickly, and stood in an easy attitude upon the hearth rug, with his hands behind his back.
"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 Stanley Rees and Peter Phipps now?"
"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—that you can turn them loose when you choose to say the word!"
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 around 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 around 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. The latter, however, perhaps by reason of his longer detention, showed none of the passivity of his companion. He struggled violently, even in the few yards between the door and the centre of the room, Wingate motioned to a third footman, who had followed behind.
"Pull out that round table," he directed. "Place three chairs around it.—So!—Sit down, Phipps. Sit down, Rees."
They obeyed, Rees only after a further useless struggle. 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 my 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. Tell that man to take these damned cords away."
"It is a joke," Wingate assured him gravely, "but it may need a very peculiar sense of humour 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 the hands of another servant who was waiting there, took an ordinary cottage loaf of bread. The three men now were seated around 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, as you know, upon a courtyard. The street is on the other side of the house. Every person under this roof is in my employ. There is no earthly chance of your being heard by any one. Still, if it pleases you to shout, shout!—Now, Grant!"
The man unfastened the gags,—first Phipps', then Rees', and finally Dredlinton's. Curiously enough, not one of the three men raised their voices. Wingate's words seemed to have impressed them. Phipps drew one or two deep breaths, Stanley Rees rubbed his mouth on his sleeve. Dredlinton was the only one who broke into anything approaching violent speech.
"My God, Wingate," he exclaimed, "if you think I'll ever forget this, you're mistaken! I'll see you in prison for it, whatever it costs me!"
"The after-consequences of this little melodrama," Phipps interposed, with grim fury, "certainly present something of a problem, I have wondered, during the last hour or so, whether you can be perfectly sane, Wingate. What good can you expect to do by this brigandage?"
"The very word 'brigandage'," Wingate observed, with a smile, "suggests my answer—ransom."
"But you can't want money?" Phipps protested.
"You know what I want," was the stern rejoinder. "You and I have already discussed it when you came to see me about that young man."
Phipps laughed uneasily.
"I remember some preposterous suggestion about selling wheat," he admitted. "If you think, however, that you can alter our entire business principles by a piece of foolery like this, you are making the mistake of your life."
"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 the finest automatic pistol in the world, and I am one of the best marksmen in the American Army. 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 honour as an American gentleman that I shall shoot the three of you and be proud of my night's work."
"And swing for it afterwards," Dredlinton threatened. "The man's mad!"
"The man is in earnest," Phipps growled. "That much, at least, I think we can grant him. What is the meaning of that piece of mummery, Wingate?" he added, pointing to the loaf of bread. "What are your terms? You must state them, sooner or later. Let us have them now."
"Agreed," Wingate replied. "The costs of that loaf is, I believe, to be exact, one and tenpence ha'penny—one and tenpence ha'penny to poor people whose staple food it is. 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, laying 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 some one in your own 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 any 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.
"The man is a fool!" Rees snarled. "It would mean ruin."
Wingate remained impassive.
"The British and Imperial Granaries, Limited," he said, "has been responsible for the ruin of a good many people. It is time now that the pendulum swung the other way.—Come, make up your minds."
"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 across at Phipps, and, finding no inspiration there, turned to Wingate. The light of an evil imagining shone in his eyes.
"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. You three gentlemen are my treasured and honoured guests. I shall not desert you—as a matter of fact, I shall scarcely leave you, except upon your own business—until your decision is made."
"Guests be damned!" Dredlinton exclaimed. "It's my house—not yours!"
"Mine for a short time by appropriation," Wingate answered, with a faint smile.
"Supposing," Rees suggested, "we were induced to knuckle under, to become the victims 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 by its means 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 vigorous self. He shook his head firmly.
"This is a matter which need not be discussed," he declared. "You have taken our breath away, Wingate. Your amazing assurance has made it difficult for us to answer you coherently. I am only now beginning to realise 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!"
The man seemed for a moment to swell,—his eyes to flash fire. Wingate shrugged his shoulders.
"I accept your defiance," he announced. "Let us commence our tryst."
Dredlinton struck the table with his fist, Phipps' brave words seemed to have struck an alien note of fear in his fellow prisoner.
"I will not submit!" he exclaimed. "My health will not stand it!—Phipps!—Rees!"
There was meaning in his eyes as well as in his tone, a meaning whichPhipps 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! Do you hear that, Wingate? I chuck it! Set me free!"
"The proper moment for your resignation from the Board of the British and Imperial Granaries," Wingate told him sternly, "was a matter of six months ago. You are a little too late, Dredlinton. Better make up your mind to stick it out with your friends."
Dredlinton groaned. There was all the malice of hatred in his eyes, a note of despair in his exclamation.
"They are strong men, those two," he muttered. "They can stand more thanI can. I demand my freedom."
Wingate threw himself into an easy-chair.
"Endurance," he observed, "is largely a matter of nerves. You must make this a test. If you fail, well, your release always rests with your two friends. I am sure they will not see you suffer unduly."
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. Damn you!"
In the Board room of the British and 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 a queue,—and left with scanty comfort. Wingate, by what seemed to be special favour, 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."
The two men exchanged long and in a way searching glances. Harrison was, as always, the lank and cadaverous nonentity, the man of negative suspicions and infinite reserves. His eyes were fixed upon the carpet. He was a study in passivity.
"What happens to the business, eh—to your big operations?"Wingate enquired.
"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 rumours, 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."
"Materially?"
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."
"It would be very interesting," Harrison murmured, his eyes following the hopeless efforts of a huge fly to escape through the closed window.
"I picture them to myself," his visitor went on, "as indulging in a secret tour through the north of England—-a tour undertaken in order that they may realise personally whether their tactics have really produced the suffering and distress reported."
"Ah!"
"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."
From the great office outside came the hum of many voices, the shrill summons of many telephones, a continued knocking and shouting at the locked door. To all these sounds Harrison remained stoically indifferent. He was studying once more the pattern of the carpet.
"Telephone," he repeated thoughtfully.
"It would 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 a moment or so later.
"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. Dark buildings frowned down upon them from either side. The place was a curious little oasis from the noonday heat. In the distance was a narrow vista of passing men and vehicles. Harrison 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 enquired 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.
"I shall never know what happiness is," she declared, "until I have left this house—never to return!"
"That will not be long," he reminded her gravely.
She placed her hand on his.
"It is full of the ghosts of my sorrows," she went on. "I have known misery here."
"And I one evening of happiness," he said, smiling.
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.
Wingate's smile was full of confidence.
"Dear," he said, "I do not believe that you have anything to fear. There have been no loose ends left. Behind your front door is safety."
"The man Shields—I only saw him for a few minutes, but he impressed me," she sighed.
"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 from any living person. Phipps, when he received that supposed message from you, was only too anxious to come the same way. They left their respective abodes for here in a secrecy which they themselves encouraged, for Rees imagined that your husband had urgent need of him, and Phipps was ass enough to believe that your summons meant what he wished it to mean. There has been no leakage of information anywhere.—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 towards the sun."
"Soon," he promised her with a smile, "I shall dominate your subconscious mind. You shall see the colours of life through my eyes. 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 odour of mingled tragedy and absurdity. Grant rose from a high-backed chair guarding the table, as Wingate approached. The latter glanced towards the three men crouching around 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. Until then I am afraid that you must share the inevitable inconveniences connected with your enforced stay here."
Phipps lurched towards him with a furious gesture. Wingate only smiled as he threw himself into his easy-chair.
"Wheat is falling very slowly," he announced. "Every one is waiting for the B. & I. to sell.—You can go now, Grant," he added, "I will take up the watch myself."