“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 and Imperial directors.  Let me see, next to him would come Phipps, I suppose.  Martin, as you may have heard, left for Paris this morning—­ostensibly.  I have 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?”