“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.”