"He is asleep," Wingate answered. "Better leave him alone until breakfast
is ready."
The telephone bell tinkled. Wingate brought back the instrument and held
out a receiver each to Phipps and his nephew.
"Harrison speaking. Your messages have all gone through on the trunk
lines, sir. The sales have begun already, and the whole market is in a
state of collapse. If you are coming down, I should advise you, sir, to
come in by the back entrance. There'll be a riot here when the news
gets about."
Wingate removed the telephone once more.
"And now," he suggested, "you would like a wash, perhaps? Or first we'd
better wake Dredlinton."
He leaned over and touched the crouching form upon the shoulder. There
was no response.
"Dredlinton," he said firmly, "wake up. Your vigil is over."
Again there was no response. Wingate leaned over and lifted him up bodily
by both shoulders. Rees went off into a fit of idiotic laughter. Phipps
stretched out his hands before his eyes. It was a terrible sight upon
which they looked,--Dredlinton's face like a piece of marble, white to
the lips, the eyes open and staring, the unmistakable finger of Death
written across it.
"He's gone!" Rees choked. "He's gone!"
Phipps suddenly found vigour once more in his arm. He struck the table.
There was a note of triumph in his brazen tone.
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