Dredlinton, who
had been speechless for the last few seconds, gazed with horror-stricken
eyes at the third chair. Wingate smiled at him grimly.
"That third chair, Dredlinton," he announced, "is for you."
The terrified man made an ineffectual dash for the door.
"You mean to make a prisoner of me in my own house?" he shouted, as he
found himself in the clutches of one of the footmen. "What fool's game
is this? You know you can't keep it up, Wingate. You'll be transported,
man. Come, confess it's a joke. Tell that man to take these damned
cords away."
"It is a joke," Wingate assured him gravely, "but it may need a very
peculiar sense of humour to appreciate it. However, you need not fear.
Your life is not threatened.--Now, Dickenson, the loaf."
The third man stepped back to the door and, from the hands of another
servant who was waiting there, took an ordinary cottage loaf of bread.
The three men now were seated around the table, bound to their chairs and
gagged. In the middle of the table, just beyond their reach, Wingate,
leaning over them, placed the loaf of bread.
"I am now," he announced, standing a little back, "going to tell Grant to
release your gags. You will probably all try shouting. I can assure you
that it is quite hopeless. This room looks out, as you know, upon a
courtyard. The street is on the other side of the house.
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