Even Roger Kendrick, as he shook hands with his client, was conscious of a little thrill of expectation.  Wingate was a man who brought with him almost a conscious sense of power.  Carefully, but not overcarefully dressed, muscular, with a frame like steel, eyes keen and bright, carrying himself like a man who knows himself and his value, John Wingate would have appeared a formidable adversary in any game in which he chose to take a hand.  Whatever his present intentions were, however, he seemed in no hurry to declare himself.  The two men spoke for a few minutes on outside subjects.  Wingate referred to the garden party of the afternoon before, led the conversation with some skill around to the subject of Josephine Dredlinton, and listened to what the other man had to say.

“Every one is sorry for Lady Dredlinton,” Kendrick pronounced.  “Why she married Dredlinton is one of the mysteries of the world.  I suppose it was the fatal mistake so many good women make—­the reformer’s passion.  Dredlinton’s rotten to the core, though.  No one could reform him, could even influence him to good to any extent.  He’s such a wrong ’un, to tell you the truth, that I’m surprised Phipps put him on the Board.  His name is long past doing any one any good.”

“Lady Dredlinton did not strike me as having altogether the air of an unhappy woman,” Wingate observed tentatively.

Kendrick shrugged his shoulders.

“No fundamentally good woman is ever unhappy,” he said, “or rather ever shows it.  She is face to face all the time with the necessity of making the best of things for the sake of other people.  Lady Dredlinton carries herself bravely, but the people who know her best never cease to feel sorry for her.”

“You have those figures I sent you a wireless for?” Wingate asked, a little abruptly.

“I have them here,” Kendrick replied, producing a little roll of papers from a drawer.  “They want a little digesting, even by a man with a head for figures like yours.  In some respects, these fellows seem to have had the most amazing luck.  Unless we come to an understanding with Russia within the next month, of which there doesn’t seem to me to be the slightest prospect, we shall get no wheat from there for at least another year.”

“And the harvests all over eastern Europe were shocking,” Wingate said, half to himself.

“It doesn’t seem to me,” Kendrick pointed out, “that more than driblets can be expected from anywhere, except, of course, the greatest source of all, Canada and the United States.”

“You’ve no indication of the Government’s attitude, I suppose?” Wingate asked.

“I don’t suppose they have one,” Kendrick answered, “upon that or any other subject.  Of course, if all the wheat that’s being stored in the country under the auspices of the B. & I. stood in their own name, the matter would appear in a different light, but they’ve been infernally clever with all these subsidiary companies.  They own a majority of shares in each, without a doubt, but they conduct their transactions as though they were absolutely independent concerns.”