Assist me, then, in my office of host. What or whom shall
we discuss? Choose your own subject."
"The disappearance of Stanley Rees, if you like," was the
unexpected reply.
Dredlinton stared at his visitor. Symptoms of panic were beginning to
reassert themselves.
"You admit, then, that you were concerned in that?"
"Concerned in it?" Wingate repeated. "I think I can venture a little
further than that."
"What do you mean?" was the startled query.
"I mean that I was and am entirely responsible for it."
Dredlinton's cigar fell from his fingers. For the moment he forgot to
pick it up. Then he stooped and with shaking fingers threw it into the
grate. When he confronted Wingate again, his face was deadly pale. He
seemed, indeed, on the point of collapse.
"Why have you done this?" he faltered. "Tell me what you mean, man, when
you say that you were responsible for his disappearance?"
"You are curious? Perhaps a little superstitious, a little nervous about
yourself, eh?"
"What the devil have you done with Stanley Rees?" Dredlinton demanded.
Wingate smiled.
"Rees," he said, "as I reminded you, is the youngest of the British and
Imperial directors. Let me see, next to him would come Phipps, I suppose.
Martin, as you may have heard, left for Paris this morning--ostensibly. I
have an idea myself that his destination is South America.
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