"Breakfast is served in the dining room," he announced respectfully.
A flickering anger seemed suddenly to blaze up in Stanley Rees. He
cast a furious glance at the man whose fingers had twisted their
imprisoning cords.
"Open the door," he snarled, "and let us get out of this damned house!"
Almost before the front door had closed upon Phipps and his nephew.
Inspector Shields descended the stairs, crossed the hall, made his way
down the passage, and silently entered the room which had been the scene
of the tragedy. Wingate was standing in the midst of the debris at the
far end of the apartment, directing the operations of a servant whom he
had summoned. Shields held up his hand.
"Stop, please," he ordered quietly.
The two men both looked around.
"I was just having the room cleared up," Wingate explained.
"Presently," was the curt reply. "Please send the man away. I want a
word with you alone."
The pseudo-servant lingered, his eyes fixed upon Wingate's face. He, too,
was an underling of Grant's,--a keen, intelligent-looking man, with broad
shoulders and a powerful face. Wingate nodded understandingly.
"I will ring if I need you, John," he said quietly.
The man left the room. Wingate sat upon the arm of an easy-chair. Shields
stood looking meditatively about him, his hands thrust deep into his
coat pockets.
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