Wingate was no longer the conventional and casual
caller. His face had hardened, his eyes were brighter, his manner
ominous. He was the modern figure of Fate, playing for a desperate stake
with cold and deadly earnestness. Dredlinton was simply panic-stricken.
He was white to the lips; his eyes were filled with the frightened gleam
of the trapped animal; he shook and twitched in a paroxysm of nervous
collapse. He seemed terrified yet fascinated by the strange metamorphosis
in his visitor.
"This is your doing?" he cried.
"It is my doing," Wingate admitted, with his eyes still fixed upon the
other's face.
Dredlinton stumbled to the fireplace, found the bell and pressed it
violently. A gleam of reassurance came to him.
"My servants shall hear you repeat that!" he exclaimed. "I will have them
all in to witness your confession. You are pleading guilty to a crime! I
shall send out for the police! I shall hand you over from here!"
"Not a bad idea," Wingate acknowledged. "By the by, though," he added, a
moment or two later, "your servants don't seem in a great hurry to answer
that bell."
Dredlinton pressed it more violently than ever. By listening intently
both men could hear its faraway summons. But nothing happened. The house
itself seemed empty. There was not even the sound of a footfall.
"You will really have to change your servants," Wingate continued.
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