"
"Martin gone?" the other gasped.
"Without a doubt. I think he saw trouble ahead. By the by, have you heard
anything of Phipps lately? Why not ring up and enquire about his health?"
Dredlinton stared a little wildly at the speaker. Then he hurried to the
telephone, snatched up the receiver and talked into it, his eyes all the
time fixed upon Wingate in a sort of frightened stare.
"Mayfair 365," he demanded. "Quick, please! An urgent call! Yes? Who's
that? Yes, yes! Browning--Mr. Phipps' secretary. I understand. Where's
Mr. Phipps?--_What_?"
Dredlinton drew away from the telephone for a moment. He dabbed his
forehead with his handkerchief. He looked like a man on the verge
of collapse.
"Something unusual seems to have happened," Wingate remarked softly.
Dredlinton was listening once more to the voice at the other end of the
telephone.
"You've tried his club? Eh? And the restaurant where he was to have
dined? What do you say? Kept them waiting and never turned up? You've
rung up the police?--What do they say?--Doing their best?--My God!"
The receiver slipped from his nerveless fingers. He turned around to face
Wingate, crouching over the table, his arms resting upon it, his eyes
blood-shot, a slave to abject fear.
"Peter Phipps has disappeared!" he gasped weakly.
The atmosphere of the room seemed to have completely changed during the
last few minutes.
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