How goes it?"
Phipps turned his leaden face. His eyes glowed dully.
"Go to hell!" he muttered.
Wingate returned to his place, lit and smoked a pipe and dozed off again.
When he opened his eyes, the sunlight was streaming in through a chink in
the closed curtains. He looked towards the table. Dredlinton had not
moved; Rees was crying quietly, like a child. An unhealthy-looking
perspiration had broken out on Phipps' face.
"Really," Wingate remarked, "you are all giving yourselves an unnecessary
amount of suffering."
Phipps spoke the fateful words after two ineffectual efforts. His
syllables sounded hard and detached.
"We give in," he faltered. "We sell."
"Capital!" Wingate exclaimed, rising promptly to his feet. "Come! In ten
minutes you shall be drinking coffee or wine--whichever you fancy. We
will hurry this little affair through."
He crossed the room, opened a cupboard and brought a telephone
instrument to the table.
"City 1000," he began.--"Yes!--British and Imperial--Right! Mr. Harrison
there?--Ask him to come to the 'phone, please.--Harrison? Good! Wait a
moment. Mr. Phipps will speak to you."
Wingate held the telephone before the half-unconscious man. Phipps swayed
towards it.
"Yes? That Harrison?--Mr. Phipps.--No, it's quite all right. We've been
away, Mr. Rees and I. We've decided--"
He reeled a little in his chair.
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