Wingate, notwithstanding his iron nerve, awoke with a start, in the grey of the following morning, to find his heart pounding against his ribs and a chill sense of horror stealing into his brain. Nothing had happened or was happening except that one cry,—the low, awful cry of a man in agony. He sat up, switched on the electric light by his side and gazed at the round table, his fingers clenched around the butt of his pistol. Dredlinton, from whom had come the sound, had fallen with his head and shoulders upon the table. His face was invisible, only there crept from his hidden lips a faint repetition of the cry,—the hideous sob, it might have been, as of a spirit descending into hell. Then there was silence. Phipps was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide open, motionless but breathing heavily. He seemed to be in a state of coma, neither wholly asleep nor wholly conscious. Rees was leaning as far back in his chair as his cords permitted. His patch of high colour had gone; there was an ugly twist to his mouth, a livid tinge in his complexion, but nevertheless he slept. Wingate rose to his feet and watched. Phipps seemed keyed up to suffering. Dredlinton showed no sign. Their gaoler strolled up to the table.
"There is the bread there, Phipps," he said, "a breakfast tray outside and some coffee. How goes it?"
Phipps turned his leaden face. His eyes glowed dully.
"Go to hell!" he muttered.
Wingate returned to his place, lit and smoked a pipe and dozed off again. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight was streaming in through a chink in the closed curtains. He looked towards the table. Dredlinton had not moved; Rees was crying quietly, like a child. An unhealthy-looking perspiration had broken out on Phipps' face.
"Really," Wingate remarked, "you are all giving yourselves an unnecessary amount of suffering."
Phipps spoke the fateful words after two ineffectual efforts. His syllables sounded hard and detached.
"We give in," he faltered. "We sell."
"Capital!" Wingate exclaimed, rising promptly to his feet. "Come! In ten minutes you shall be drinking coffee or wine—whichever you fancy. We will hurry this little affair through."
He crossed the room, opened a cupboard and brought a telephone instrument to the table.
"City 1000," he began.—"Yes!—British and Imperial—Right! Mr. Harrison there?—Ask him to come to the 'phone, please.—Harrison? Good! Wait a moment. Mr. Phipps will speak to you."
Wingate held the telephone before the half-unconscious man. Phipps swayed towards it.
"Yes? That Harrison?—Mr. Phipps.—No, it's quite all right. We've been away, Mr. Rees and I. We've decided—"
He reeled a little in his chair. Wingate poured some brandy from his flask into the little metal cup and held it out. Phipps drank it greedily.
"Go on now."
"We have decided," Phipps continued, "to sell wheat—to sell, you understand? You are to telephone Liverpool, Manchester, Lincoln, Glasgow, Bristol and Cardiff. Establish the price of sixty shillings.—Yes, that's right—sixty shillings.—What is that you say?—You want confirmation?—Mr. Rees will speak."
Wingate passed the telephone to the next man; also his flask, which he held for a moment to his lips. Rees gurgled greedily. His voice sounded strained, however, and cracked.
"Mr. Rees speaking, Harrison.—Yes, we are back. We'll be around at the office later on. You got Mr. Phipps' message?—We've made up our minds to sell wheat—sell it. What the devil does it matter to you why? We are selling it to save—"
Wingate's pistol had stolen from his pocket. Rees glared at it for a moment and then went on.
"To save an injunction from the Government. We have private information.They have determined to find our dealings in wheat illegal.—Yes, Mr.Phipps meant what he said—sixty shillings.—Use all our long-distancewires. How long will it take you?—A quarter of an hour?—Eh?"
Wingate held the instrument away for a moment.
"You will have your breakfast," he promised, "immediately the reply comes."
"A quarter of an hour?" Rees went on. "Nonsense! Try and do it in five minutes.—Yes, our whole stock. When you've got the message through, ring us up.—Where are we? Why, at Lord Dredlinton's house. Don't be longer than you can help. Put a different person on each line.—What's that?"
Rees turned his head.
"He wants to know again," he said, "how much to sell. Let me say half our stock. That will be sufficient to ruin us. It will bring the price of that damned loaf of yours—"
"The whole stock," Wingate interrupted, "every bushel."
"Sell the whole stock," Rees repeated wearily.
Wingate replaced the telephone upon a distant table. Then he mixed a little brandy and water in two glasses, broke off a piece of bread, set it before the two men and rang the bell. It was answered in an incredibly short space of time.
"Grant," he directed, "bring in the breakfast trays in ten minutes."
The man disappeared as silently as he had come. Wingate cut the knots and released the hands of his two prisoners. Their fingers were numb and helpless, however. Rees picked up the bread with his teeth from the table. Phipps tried but failed. Wingate held the tumbler of brandy and water once more to his lips.
"Here, take this," he invited. "You'll find the circulation come back all right directly."
"Aren't you going to give him anything?" Phipps asked, moving his head towards Dredlinton.
"He is asleep," Wingate answered. "Better leave him alone until breakfast is ready."
The telephone bell tinkled. Wingate brought back the instrument and held out a receiver each to Phipps and his nephew.
"Harrison speaking. Your messages have all gone through on the trunk lines, sir. The sales have begun already, and the whole market is in a state of collapse. If you are coming down, I should advise you, sir, to come in by the back entrance. There'll be a riot here when the news gets about."
Wingate removed the telephone once more.
"And now," he suggested, "you would like a wash, perhaps? Or first we'd better wake Dredlinton."
He leaned over and touched the crouching form upon the shoulder. There was no response.
"Dredlinton," he said firmly, "wake up. Your vigil is over."
Again there was no response. Wingate leaned over and lifted him up bodily by both shoulders. Rees went off into a fit of idiotic laughter. Phipps stretched out his hands before his eyes. It was a terrible sight upon which they looked,—Dredlinton's face like a piece of marble, white to the lips, the eyes open and staring, the unmistakable finger of Death written across it.
"He's gone!" Rees choked. "He's gone!"
Phipps suddenly found vigour once more in his arm. He struck the table.There was a note of triumph in his brazen tone.
"My God, Wingate," he cried, "you've killed him! You'll swing for this job, after all!"
There followed a few moments of tense and awestruck silence. Then an evil smile parted Rees' lips, and he looked at Wingate with triumphant malice.
"This is murder!" he exclaimed.
"So your excellent uncle has already intimated," Wingate replied. "I am sorry that it has happened, of course. As for the consequences, however, I do not fear them."
He crossed the room and rang the bell. Once more a servant in plain clothes made his appearance with phenomenal quickness.
"Send to her ladyship's room," Wingate directed, "and enquire the name and address of Lord Dredlinton's doctor. Let him be fetched here at once. Tell two of the others to come down. Lord Dredlinton must be carried into his bedroom."
The man had scarcely left the room before the door was opened again and Grant himself appeared. This time he closed the door behind him and came a little way towards Wingate.
"Inspector Shields is here, sir," he announced in an agitated whisper.
Wingate stood for a moment as though turned to stone.
"Inspector Shields?" he repeated. "What does he want?"
"He wants to see Lord Dredlinton. I explained that it was an inconvenient time, but he insisted upon waiting."
Wingate hesitated for a moment, deep in thought. The two exhausted men chuckled hideously.
"Some playing cards," Wingate directed, suddenly breaking into speech."Open that sideboard, Grant. Bring out the sandwiches and biscuits andfruit. That's right. And some glasses. Open the champagne quickly.Cigars, too. Here—shut the door. We must have a moment or two at this.You understand, Grant—-a debauch!"
The two moved about like lightning. In an incredibly short time, the room presented a strange appearance. The table before which the three men had kept their weary vigil was littered all over with playing cards, cigar ash, fragments of broken wine glasses. A half-empty bottle of champagne stood on the floor. Two empty ones, their contents emptied into some bowls of flowers, lay on their sides. Another pack of cards was scattered upon the carpet. A chair was overturned. There was every indication of a late-night sitting and a debauch. Last of all, Grant and Wingate between them carried the body of Lord Dredlinton behind the screen and laid it upon the sofa. Then the latter stood back and surveyed his work.
"That will do," he said. "Wait one moment, Grant, before you show the inspector in. I have a word to say first to my two friends here."
Phipps scowled across the table, heavy-eyed and sullen. There were black lines under his eyes, in which the gleam of hunger still lurked. His hands were gripping a chunk of the bread which he had torn away from the loaf, but which he had seemed to eat with difficulty.
"Your friends may have something to say to you," he muttered. "If you think to stop our tongues, you're wrong—wrong, I tell you. The game's up for you, Wingate. The wires that are ruining us this morning will be telling of your arrest to-night, eh?"
"You may be right," Wingate answered coolly, "but I doubt it. Listen. Do you believe that I am a man who keeps his word?"
"Go on," Phipps muttered.
"You are quite right in all that you have been saying, up to a certain point. Tell the truth and I am done for, but you pay the price, both of you. Under those circumstances, will it be worth your while to tell the truth?"
"What do you mean?" Rees demanded.
Phipps made a movement to rise.
"I am faint," he cried. "Give me some wine."
Wingate filled two tumblers with champagne and gave one to each. The effect upon Phipps was remarkable. The colour came back into his cheeks, his tone gathered strength.
"What do you mean?" he echoed, "Worth our while?—Why the devil don't they bring the man in? You'll see!"
"Inspector Shields will no doubt insist upon coming in," Wingate replied. "I gather from his visit that he is on the right track at last. But listen. If I am going to be arrested on a charge of abduction and manslaughter, as seems exceedingly probable, I am not going to leave my job half done. An English jury may call it murder if I shoot you two as you sit. I'll risk that. If I am going to get into trouble for one of you, I'll make sure of the lot."
His voice carried conviction. The two men stared at him. Rees, who had been gnawing at a crust of bread, swallowed thickly, drained his glass and staggered to his feet.
"You wouldn't dare!" he scoffed.
"You underestimate my courage," Wingate assured them with a smile. "See, I will speak to you words which I swear are as true as any to which you have ever listened. I hear the footsteps of the inspector. If you fail for a single second to corroborate the story which I shall tell him, I shall shoot you both and possibly myself. Look at me, both of you. You know I have the courage to do it. You know Ishalldo it.—That's all."
There was a knock at the door. Grant opened it and stood on one side.
"Inspector Shields has called," he announced. "I thought you might like to have a word with him, sir."
The inspector blinked for a moment. The appearance of the room, with its closely drawn curtains and air of dissipation, was certainly strange. Wingate advanced to meet him.
"You called to see Lord Dredlinton, I believe, Inspector," he began. "My name is Wingate. I am friend of the family."
"I understood that Lord Dredlinton was here," the inspector announced, looking around.
"I am sorry to say," Wingate informed him gravely, "that a very terrible thing has happened. Lord Dredlinton died suddenly in this room, only a few minutes ago. His body is upon the sofa there."
The imperturbability of the inspector was not proof against such an amazing statement.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Was he ill?"
"Not that we know of," Wingate replied. "The doctor, who is on his way here, will doubtless be able to inform us upon that point, I have always understood that his heart was scarcely sound."
The inspector, as he stepped forward towards the couch, with Wingate a yard or two in front of him, for the first time recognised the two men who sat at the table, looking at him so strangely. Rees' hands were in his pockets, his tie had come undone, his hair was ruffled. He had all the appearance of a man recovering from a wild debauch. Phipps' waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his eyes, in the gathering light, were streaked with blood.
"Mr. Rees!" the inspector exclaimed. "And Mr. Phipps! Here? Why, I've a dozen men all over the country looking for you two gentlemen!"
There was a dead silence. Wingate's hand had stolen into his pocket, in which there was a little bulge, Rees seemed about to speak, then checked himself. He glanced towards Phipps,—Phipps, whose hands were clasped together as though he were in pain.
"The wanderers returned," Wingate explained, with a smile. "Lord Dredlinton, as you know. Inspector, has been very much worried by the supposed disappearance of his fellow directors. They turned up here last night unexpectedly. It seems that they have been all the time up in the North of England, making some investigations connected with the energies of their company. Their sudden return was naturally a great relief to Lord Dredlinton. We all celebrated—-perhaps a little too well. Since then I am afraid we must also plead guilty," Wingate went on, "to a rather wild night, which has ended, as you see, in tragedy."
The inspector bent down and examined Lord Dredlinton's body.
"The doctor is on his way here," Wingate continued. "He will inform us, no doubt, as to the cause of death. Lord Dredlinton looked very exhausted many times during the night—or rather the morning—"
"I am to understand," Shields interrupted quietly, "that, overjoyed by the return of his friends, Lord Dredlinton, Mr. Phipps, Mr. Rees and yourself indulged forthwith in a debauch? A great deal of wine was drunk?"
"A great deal," Wingate admitted.
"Supper, I see, has been served here," the inspector went on, "and you have played cards."
"Poker," Wingate assented. "Lord Dredlinton preferred bridge but we rather overruled him."
Shields turned towards the two men, who had been silent listeners. In his face there seemed to be some desire for corroboration.
"You two gentlemen were present when Lord Dredlinton died?" he asked.
"We were," Phipps replied, after a moment's hesitation.
"We believed that it was a faint," Rees observed. "Even now it seems impossible to believe that he is dead."
"Dead!—My God!" Phipps repeated, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Nothing else transpired during the evening," the inspector continued, "likely to have proved a shock to his lordship?"
"Nothing," Phipps declared hoarsely. "We must have been playing for a great many hours."
"I am a strong man," Rees added, "and the youngest of the party, but I too—feel faint."
"It seems a little strange, Mr. Wingate," Shields remarked, turning towards him, "that you yourself show not the slightest signs of fatigue."
Wingate smiled grimly.
"I neither drink nor smoke to excess," he explained, "and as a rule I keep regular hours. Perhaps that is why, if I choose to sit up all night, I am able to stand it."
There was a knock at the door and Grant presented himself. To all appearance he was, as ever, the perfect butler. It was only Wingate who saw that quick, questioning look, the hovering of his hand about his pocket; who knew that, if necessary, there was no risk which this man would not run.
"The doctor has arrived, sir," he announced.
"You had better show him in," Wingate replied. "And, Grant."
"Yes, sir?"
"It would be as well, I think, to let her ladyship be informed that LordDredlinton is ill—very ill."
The man bowed and stood on one side as the doctor entered. The latter paused for a moment in astonishment as he looked upon the scene. Then he moved towards one of the windows and threw it up.
"If Lord Dredlinton has been sitting for long in an atmosphere like this," he observed drily, "it's enough to have killed him."
He glanced around with an air of distaste at Phipps and Rees, at the debris of the presumed debauch, and stooped over the body stretched upon the sofa. His examination lasted barely a minute. Then he rose to his feet.
"Lord Dredlinton is dead," he announced in a shocked tone.
"I feared so," Wingate murmured.
"Will you call in some servants?" the doctor went on. "I should like the body carried into his lordship's bedroom at once."
Grant appeared, quickly followed by two of his subordinates. The melancholy little procession left the room, and Shields turned to follow it. As he reached the door, he hesitated and glanced around towards Wingate.
"Mr. Wingate," he said, "I wish to hear what the doctor has to say concerning Lord Dredlinton's death, but I also wish to have another word with you before you leave the house. Can I rely upon your waiting here for me?"
"I give you my word," Wingate promised.
"I shall also require some explanation," the inspector continued, turning to Phipps—
"Explanation be damned!" the latter interrupted furiously. "If you want to know the truth about the whole business—"
He broke off suddenly. His eyes seemed fascinated by the slow entry ofWingate's hand to his pocket. He kicked a footstool sullenly on one side.The inspector, after waiting for a moment, turned away.
"In due season," he concluded, "I shall require to hear the truth from both of you gentlemen. You seem to have given Scotland Yard a great deal of unnecessary trouble."
The telephone bell began to ring as the door closed. Wingate took up the receiver, listened for a moment and passed the instrument over to Phipps. The latter presently replaced the receiver upon its hook with a little groan.
"You've broken us," he announced grimly.
"No news has ever given me greater pleasure." Wingate replied.
Stanley Rees rose to his feet.
"We are not prisoners any more, I suppose?" he asked sullenly. "I am going home."
"There is nothing to detain you," Wingate replied politely, "unless you choose to take breakfast first."
"We want no more of your hospitality," Phipps muttered. "You will hear of us again!"
Wingate stood between them and the door.
"Listen," he said. "You are going away, I can see, with one idea in your mind. You have held your peace during the last quarter of an hour, because you have known that your lives would be forfeit if you told the truth, but you are saying to yourselves now that from the shelter of other walls you can tell your story."
There was a furtive look in Rees' eyes, a guilty twitch on his companion's mouth. Wingate smiled.
"You cannot," he continued, "by the wildest stretch of imagination, believe that this has been a one-man job. The whole scheme of your conveyance into Dredlinton House and into this room has necessitated the employment of something like twenty men. The greater part of these, of course, have been paid by me. One or two are volunteers."
"Volunteers?" Phipps exclaimed. "Do you mean that you could find men to do your dirty work for nothing?"
"I found men," Wingate answered sternly, "and I could find many more—and without payment, too—who were willing to enter into any scheme directed against you and your company."
"Are we to stand here," Phipps demanded, "whilst you preach us a sermon about our business methods?"
"I am afraid, for your own sakes, you must hear what I have to say before you go," Wingate replied. "I will put it in as few words as possible. If you give the show away, besides making yourselves the laughingstocks of the world you may live for twenty-four hours if my people are unlucky, but I give you my word of honour, Phipps—and I will do you the credit of believing that you recognise truth when you come across it—that you will both of you be dead before the dawn of the second day."
Phipps leaned against the back of a chair. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last few days.
"You threaten us with the vengeance of some secret society?" he demanded.
"Not so very secret, either," Wingate rejoined, "but if you want to know the truth, I will tell it you. The greatest problem which we had to face, in arranging this little escapade, was how we should keep you silent after your release. We could think of none but primitive means, and those primitive means are established. There are five men, each of them men who have been ruined by the operations of your company, who have sworn to take your lives if you should divulge the truth as to your detention here. They are men of their word and they will do it. That is the position, gentlemen. I will not detain you any longer."
Phipps moistened his dry lips.
"If," he said, "we decide to hold our peace about the happenings of the last few days, it will not be because of your threats."
"So long as you hold your peace," Wingate replied drily, "I have no desire to question your motives. Believe me, though, silence, and silence alone, will preserve your lives."
He opened the door and they passed out of the room, Phipps stumbling a little, as though blinded by the unexpected sunshine which streamed through the skylight in the hall. From the shadows beyond, Grant came suddenly into evidence.
"Breakfast is served in the dining room," he announced respectfully.
A flickering anger seemed suddenly to blaze up in Stanley Rees. He cast a furious glance at the man whose fingers had twisted their imprisoning cords.
"Open the door," he snarled, "and let us get out of this damned house!"
Almost before the front door had closed upon Phipps and his nephew. Inspector Shields descended the stairs, crossed the hall, made his way down the passage, and silently entered the room which had been the scene of the tragedy. Wingate was standing in the midst of the debris at the far end of the apartment, directing the operations of a servant whom he had summoned. Shields held up his hand.
"Stop, please," he ordered quietly.
The two men both looked around.
"I was just having the room cleared up," Wingate explained.
"Presently," was the curt reply. "Please send the man away. I want a word with you alone."
The pseudo-servant lingered, his eyes fixed upon Wingate's face. He, too, was an underling of Grant's,—a keen, intelligent-looking man, with broad shoulders and a powerful face. Wingate nodded understandingly.
"I will ring if I need you, John," he said quietly.
The man left the room. Wingate sat upon the arm of an easy-chair. Shields stood looking meditatively about him, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets.
"What is the physician's report?" the former asked.
The inspector seemed to come back from a brown study.
"Ah! Upon Lord Dredlinton? A very good report from your point of view, Mr. Wingate. Lord Dredlinton's death was due to exhaustion, but the doctor certifies that he was suffering, and has been for some time, from advanced valvular disease of the heart."
"He had not the appearance," Wingate observed, "of being a healthy man."
"He certainly was not," Shields admitted. "On the other hand, with great care he might have lived for some time. The immediate cause of his death was the strain of—what shall we call it, Mr. Wingate—this orgy?"
"An excellent word," Wingate agreed, his eyes fixed upon his companion.
The inspector lifted one of the packs of cards which had been dashed upon the table and looked at them thoughtfully.
"Poker," he murmured. "By the by, where are the chips?"
"The chips?" Wingate repeated.
"Poker is one of those games, I believe, which necessitates the use of counters or the handling of a great deal of money."
Wingate shrugged his shoulders. He made no reply. Shields took up one of the bottles of champagne, held it to the light, poured out the remainder of its contents and gazed with an air of surprise at the froth which crept up the glass.
"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I do not know much about champagne, but it seems to me that this has not been opened very long. By the by, you all drank champagne?" he went on. "I see no trace of any spirits about."
"It was one of Lord Dredlinton's hobbles," Wingate declared. "Spirits are very seldom served in this house."
The Inspector nodded. He had crossed to the sideboard and was looking into the contents of a great bowl of flowers.
"I never heard," he reflected, "that roses did well in champagne. Let me see," he proceeded, counting the empty bottles, "four bottles between four of you, the contents of at least two bottles here, and—dear me, the carnations, too!" he went on, peering into a further bowl. "Really, Mr. Wingate, your orgy scarcely seems to have been one of drink."
"Perhaps it was not," was the resigned reply.
The inspector sighed.
"I have seldom," he pronounced, looking fixedly at his companion, "seen a more amateurish piece of work than the arrangement of this so-called debauch. It seems pitiable, Mr. Wingate, that a man with brains like yours should have sought to deceive in so puerile a fashion."
"What is this leading up to?" Wingate demanded.
The inspector drew a little pamphlet from his pocket and passed it across. Wingate took it into his hands, opened it and stared at it in surprise.
"A list of Cunard sailings!" he exclaimed.
"One of the safest of lines," said Shields, with a nod. "TheAgricolasails to-morrow morning. The boat train, I believe, leaves Euston at four."
Wingate glanced from the sailing list to his companion. The inspector was making movements as though about to depart. Wingate himself was speechless.
"The physician is able to certify," Shields went on, "that Lord Dredlinton's death is due to natural causes. There will therefore be no inquest. That being the case, it is not my business to make enquiries—unless I choose."
A newsboy went shouting across the square. The two men heard distinctly his hoarse cry:
"Great fall of wheat in every market! Cheap bread next week!"
The eyes of the two men met. There was almost a smile upon Shields' thin lips as he turned towards the door.
"And I do not choose," he concluded.
Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year at a well-chosen table at Giro's restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table and a menu which had commanded the respect of themaître d'hôtelwhose province it was to supply their wants. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.
"Those figures from the Official Receiver," Phipps remarked, as he filled his glass with wine and passed the bottle across the table, "are scarcely what we had a right to expect, eh, Stanley?"
"They are simply scandalous," Rees declared gloomily. "One does not speculate with one's own money. I should have thought that any one with the least knowledge of finance would understand that. This man seems to think he has a lien upon our private fortunes."
"Not only that," Peter Phipps groaned, "but he's attaching as much as he can get hold of. And to think of that old devil, Skinflint Martin, scenting the trouble and getting off to Buenos Ayres! The best part of half a million he got off with. Pig!—Stanley, this may be our last season at Monte Carlo. We shall have to draw in. Every year it gets more difficult to make money."
"One month more of the British and Imperial," Stanley Rees sighed, "and we should both have been millionaires."
"And as it is," his uncle groaned, "I am beginning to get a little nervous about our hotel bill."
* * * * *
With a benedictory wave of his hand, an all-welcoming smile, and a backward progress which suggested distinction bordering upon royalty, the chiefmaître d'hôtelushered his distinguished patrons to the table which had been reserved for them. Josephine looked across the little sea of her favourite blue gentians and smiled at her husband.
"You remember always," she murmured.
Wingate, who was standing up until his guests were seated, flashed an answering smile. At his right hand was a French princess, who was Josephine's godmother; at his left Sarah, lately glorified to married estate. An English Cabinet Minister and an American diplomatist, with their wives, and Jimmy, completed the party. No one noticed the two men at the little table near the wall.
"You are a magician," the Princess whispered to Wingate. "Never could I have believed that my dear Josephine would become young again. They speak of her already as the most beautiful woman on the Riviera, and with reason. I am proud of my godchild. And they tell me that you," she went on, "have done great things in the world of finance, as well as in the underworld of politics. Those are worlds, alas!" she added with a little sigh, "of which I know nothing."
"They are worlds," Wingate replied, "which exist more on paper than anywhere else."
"Is it true, Wingate," the Cabinet Minister asked him curiously, "that it was you who broke the British and Imperial Granaries?"
"If there is such a thing," Wingate answered with a smile, "as a world of underground politics—the Princess herself coined the phrase—then I think I may claim that what passed between me and the directors of that company is secret history. As a matter of fact, though, I think I was to some extent responsible for smashing that horrible syndicate."
"It ought never to have been allowed to flourish," the Minister pronounced. "Its charter was cunningly devised to cheat our laws, and it succeeded. After all, though, it is good to think that the days when such an institution could live for a moment have passed. Labour and the reconstructionists have joined hands in sane legislation. It is my belief that for the next few decades, at any rate, the British Empire and America—for the two move now hand in hand—are entering upon a period of world supremacy."
The American diplomatist had something to say.
"For that," he declared, "we may be thankful to those responsible for the destruction of militarism. Industrial triumphs were never possible under its shadow. An era of prosperity will also be an era of peace."
"For how long, I wonder?" the Princess whispered "Human nature has shown remarkably little change through all the ages. Don't you think that some day soon one person will have what another covets, and the world will rock again to the clash of arms?"
"We are all selfish," Josephine murmured. "Life closes in around us, and we are mostly concerned with what may happen in our own time. I think that for as long as we live, peace is assured."
"I am sure I hope so," Sarah declared. "I should hate Jimmy to have to go and fight again."
"What sort of a husband does he make?" Wingate enquired.
"Wonderful!" Sarah acknowledged with emphasis. "He has developed gifts of which I had not the slightest apprehension. Of course, Josephine would scratch me if I ventured upon such a thing as comparison,-so I'll be content with saying that I think we are both very happy women."
Josephine laughed gaily. The almost peachlike bloom of girlhood had come back to her cheeks. She wore a rope of pearls, her husband's wedding gift, which had belonged to an Empress, and her white gown was thechef d'oeuvreof a great French artiste's most wonderful season. She looked across the table. How was it, she wondered, with a little glad thrill, that the eyes for which she sought seemed always waiting for hers.
"We are very lucky women," she said simply.
Phipps bit the end off his cigar a little savagely. He had been casting longing glances towards the table in the centre of the room, with its brilliant company.
"So that is the end of my duel with Wingate," he muttered. "I wonder whether it would be worth while."
"Whether what would be worth while?" his nephew asked.
Phipps made no direct reply. He rose instead to his feet.
"I am going back to my room at the hotel for a moment, Stanley, to fetch something," he confided. "Order some more of the Napoleon brandy. I shall perhaps need it when I come back."
The young man nodded, and Peter Phipps started on his way to the door. He had to pass the table at which Wingate was presiding, and it chanced that Josephine, looking up, met his eyes. There was a moment's hesitation in her mind. Women are always merciful when happy. Josephine was very happy, and Peter Phipps showed signs in his bearing and in the lines upon his face that he was not the man of six months ago. She smiled very slightly and bowed, a greeting which Phipps returned with a smile which was almost of gratitude. The Cabinet Minister, who had met Phipps and remembered little of his history, followed Josephine's lead; also the American, who had known him in New York. Phipps was holding his head a little higher as he went out.
In ten minutes he returned. He carried a small packet in his hand, which he laid down before his nephew.
"Try one," he invited.
Stanley Rees withdrew one of the long cigars from its paper covering.
"Did you go all the way back to the hotel to fetch these?" he asked incredulously.
Phipps shook his head.
"I went to fetch my revolver," he said. "I meant to shoot Wingate. But did you see her, Stanley? She nodded to me—actually smiled!"
"What of it?" the young man asked.
"You're a fool," his uncle replied. "Pass the brandy."