But--now you are only wasting your time."
Dredlinton had rushed to the door, shaken the handle violently, only to
find it locked. He pommelled with his fists upon the panels.
"Come, come," his companion expostulated, "there is really no need for
such extremes. You want something, perhaps? Allow me."
Wingate crossed the room, rang the bell three times quickly, and stood in
an easy attitude upon the hearth rug, with his hands behind his back.
"Let us see," he said, "whether that has any effect or not."
"Is this your house or mine?" Dredlinton demanded.
"Your house," was the laconic reply, "but my servants."
From outside was heard the sound of a turning key. The door was opened.
Grant, the new butler, made his appearance,--a thin, determined-looking
man, with white hair and keen dark eyes, who bore a striking resemblance
to Mr. Andrew Slate.
"His lordship wants the whisky and soda brought in here, Grant," Wingate
told him, "and--wait just a moment.--You seem very much distressed about
the disappearance of your friends, Lord Dredlinton. Would you like to
see them?"
"What? See Stanley Rees and Peter Phipps now?"
"Yes!"
"You are talking nonsense!" Dredlinton shouted. "You may know where they
are--I should think it is very likely that you do--but you aren't going
to persuade me that you've got them here in my house--that you can turn
them loose when you choose to say the word!"
Wingate glanced across at the butler, who nodded understandingly and
withdrew.
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