He seemed to have lost alike his courage and his dignity.
"Look here," he said, "the rest of the things which lie between us we can
fight out, but I want my nephew. What will his return cost me in hard
cash between you and me?"
"The cost of bringing wheat down to its normal figure," Wingate answered.
"I couldn't do it if I would," Phipps argued. "There's Skinflint
Martin--he won't part with a bushel. I'm not alone in this. Come, I have
my cheque book in my pocket. You can fight the B. & I. to the death, if
you will--commercially, politically, anyhow--but I want my nephew."
Wingate threw open the door.
"There was a girl once," he reminded him, "my ward, who drowned herself.
To hell with your nephew, Phipps!"
Passion for a moment made once more a man of Phipps. His eyes blazed.
"And to hell with you!--Hypocrite!--Adulterer!" he shouted.
Wingate's fist missed the point of his adversary's chin by less than a
thought. Phipps went staggering back through the open door into the
corridor and stood leaning against the wall, half dazed, his hand to his
cheek. Wingate looked at him contemptuously for a moment, every nerve in
his body aching for the fight. Then he remembered.
"Get home to your kennel, Phipps," he ordered.
Then he slammed the door and locked it.
CHAPTER XVIII
"Another strange face," Sarah remarked, looking after the butler who had
just brought in the coffee.
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