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_?"

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