"Is that so? Peter Phipps is an awfully good fellow."
"Mr. Phipps is a director of the British and Imperial Granaries,
Limited," Wingate said quietly.
"So am I," Lord Dredlinton announced, with a bland smile.
"I am aware of it," was the curt reply.
"You don't approve of our company?"
"I do not."
Lord Dredlinton shrugged his shoulders. He lit a cigarette and dismissed
the subject.
"Well, well," he continued amiably, "there is no need for us to quarrel,
I hope. We all look at things differently in this world, and,
fortunately, the matter which I want to discuss with you lies right
outside the operations of the B. & I. When can you give me a few moments
of your time, Mr. Wingate? Will you call around at our offices, Number
13 Throgmorton Street, next Tuesday morning at, say? eleven-thirty?"
Wingate was a little perplexed.
"I don't want to waste your time, Lord Dredlinton," he said. "Can't you
give me some idea as to the nature of this business?"
"To tell you the truth, I can't," the other confided. "It's more Phipps'
affair than mine. I'll promise, though, that we won't keep you for longer
than ten minutes."
"I will come then." Wingate acquiesced a little doubtfully. "I must warn
you, however, that between Phipps and myself there is a quarrel of
ancient standing. We meet as acquaintances because the conventions of the
world make anything else ridiculous.
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