happened," Wingate remarked softly.

Dredlinton was listening once more to the voice at the other end of the
telephone.

"You've tried his club? Eh? And the restaurant where he was to have
dined? What do you say? Kept them waiting and never turned up? You've
rung up the police?--What do they say?--Doing their best?--My God!"

The receiver slipped from his nerveless fingers. He turned around to face
Wingate, crouching over the table, his arms resting upon it, his eyes
blood-shot, a slave to abject fear.

"Peter Phipps has disappeared!" he gasped weakly.

The atmosphere of the room seemed to have completely changed during the
last few minutes. Wingate was no longer the conventional and casual
caller. His face had hardened, his eyes were brighter, his manner
ominous. He was the modern figure of Fate, playing for a desperate stake
with cold and deadly earnestness. Dredlinton was simply panic-stricken.
He was white to the lips; his eyes were filled with the frightened gleam
of the trapped animal; he shook and twitched in a paroxysm of nervous
collapse. He seemed terrified yet fascinated by the strange metamorphosis
in his visitor.

"This is your doing?" he cried.

"It is my doing," Wingate admitted, with his eyes still fixed upon the
other's face.

Dredlinton stumbled to the fireplace, found the bell and pressed it
violently. A gleam of reassurance came to him.

"My servants shall hear you repeat that!" he exclaimed. "I will have them
all in to witness your confession. You are pleading guilty to a crime! I
shall send out for the police! I shall hand you over from here!"

"Not a bad idea," Wingate acknowledged. "By the by, though," he added, a
moment or two later, "your servants don't seem in a great hurry to answer
that bell."

Dredlinton pressed it more violently than ever. By listening intently
both men could hear its faraway summons. But nothing happened. The house
itself seemed empty. There was not even the sound of a footfall.

"You will really have to change your servants," Wingate continued. "Fancy
not answering a bell! They must hear it pealing away. Still, you have the
telephone. Why not ring up Scotland Yard direct?"

Dredlinton, dazed now with terror, took his fingers from the bell and
snatched up the telephone receiver. All the time his eyes were riveted
upon his companion's, their weak depths filled with a nameless horror.

"Quick!" he shouted down the receiver. "Scotland Yard! Put me straight