"I have been down below in Stanley's rooms," he explained, "been through
his papers. It's true what the inspector fellow reports. There isn't a
scrap of evidence of any complication in his life. There isn't a shadow
of doubt in my mind as to the cause of his disappearance."
"Indeed!" Wingate murmured.
"It's a villainous plot, engineered by you!" Phipps continued, his
voice shaking. "I'm fond of the boy. That's why I've come to you. Name
your terms."
Wingate indulged in a curious bout of silence. He took a pipe from a
rack, filled it leisurely with tobacco, lit it and smoked for several
moments. Then he turned towards his unwelcome companion.
"I am debarred by a promise made to myself," he said coldly, "from
offering you any form of hospitality. If you wish to smoke, I shall not
interfere."
Phipps shook his head.
"I have not smoked all the evening," he confessed, "I cannot. You are
right when you say that we are not beaten, but I like to look ahead. I
want to know your terms."
"You are anxious about your nephew?"
"Yes!"
"And why do you connect me with his disappearance?"
Phipps gave a little weary gesture.
"I am so sick of words," he said.
"We will argue the matter, then," conceded Wingate, "from your point of
view. Supposing that your nephew has been abducted and is held at the
present moment as a hostage.
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