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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Profiteers"

"Good night, Mr. Shields."
The man bowed to Josephine.
"Good night, my lord!"
Dredlinton stared at the closed door. Then he turned around with a little
gesture of anger.
"Every damned thing that happens, nowadays, seems designed to irritate
me!" he exclaimed. "That man Shields is nothing but a poopstick!"
"I differ from you entirely," Josephine declared. "I thought that he
seemed a very intelligent person, with unusual powers of self-restraint."
"Shows what your judgment is worth! I can't think what Scotland Yard are
about, to put the greatest lout they have in the service on to an
important business like this. And what the mischief are we always
changing servants for? There were two new men at dinner, and that butler
of yours gives me the creeps. What on earth has become of Jacob?"
"You told Jacob yourself to go to hell, a few days ago," Josephine
reminded him. "You can scarcely expect any self-respecting butler to
stand your continual abuse."
"Or a self-respecting wife, eh?" he sneered.
Josephine regarded him coldly.
"One's servants," she remarked, "have an advantage. Jacob has found a
better place."
"Precisely what you'd like to do yourself, eh?"
"Precisely what I intend to do before long."
"Well, then, why don't you do it?" he demanded brutally. "You think that
everything I said the other day was bluff, eh, and that Stanley Rees'
disappearance has driven everything else out of my head? Well, you're
wrong, madam.


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