He had at least the courage of a
drunken man, for he took no account of Wingate towering over him.
"Don't you know?" he cried out. "Doesn't every one understand?"
"Stop!" Wingate ordered.
"And why the hell should I stop for you?" Dredlinton shouted. "If Flossie
wants to know, here's the truth. It's the least cherished of all my
household goods. It's my wife."
Of what happened during the next few seconds, or rather of the manner of
its happening, few people were able to render a coherent account. All
that they remembered was a most amazing spectacle,--the spectacle of
Wingate walking quietly to the door with Dredlinton in his arms, kicking
and shouting smothered profanities, but absolutely powerless to free
himself. The door was opened by a waiter, and Wingate passed into the
corridor. A _maitre d'hotel,_ with presence of mind, hurried up to him.
"Have you an empty room with a key?" Wingate asked.
The man led the way and pushed open the door of a small apartment used on
busy occasions for a service room. Wingate thrust in his struggling
burden and locked the door.
"Strong panels?" he enquired, pausing for a moment to listen to the blows
directed upon them.
The head waiter smiled.
"They're more than one man can break through, sir," he assured him.
Wingate made his way back to the supper party.
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