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There was meaning in his eyes as well as in his tone, a meaning which Phipps put brutally into words. "It's no good, Dredlinton," he warned him. "We are going to stick it out, and you've got to stick it out with us. But," he added, glaring at Wingate, "remember this.
He studied his companion appraisingly. "Dredlinton," he said at last, "I did you an injustice." "I am glad that you are beginning to appreciate the fact," the other replied, with some dignity. "I welcome your confession." "I looked upon you," Wingate continued, "as only an ordinary, weak sort of scoundrel. I find you one of the filthiest blackguards who ever crawled upon the earth."
Lady Dredlinton," he went on, "the person who opened the door of my sitting room last night was Miss Flossie Lane, a musical comedy actress sent there by your husband, who had followed you to the Milan. Your husband imagines that because you were in my apartments at such an unusual hour, he has cause for a divorce.
In his face there seemed to be some desire for corroboration. "You two gentlemen were present when Lord Dredlinton died?" he asked. "We were," Phipps replied, after a moment's hesitation. "We believed that it was a faint," Rees observed. "Even now it seems impossible to believe that he is dead." "Dead! My God!" Phipps repeated, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Your methods are a little too melodramatic." "Go to hell!" Dredlinton shouted. "You are too much out for compromises, Phipps. There are times when one must strike. Exchange! I say, Exchange! Why the devil can't you give me Mayfair 67? What's that? An urgent call? Well, go on, then. Out with it. Who's speaking? Mr. Stanley Rees' servant? Yes, yes! I'm Lord Dredlinton. Get on with it."
"Quite a fallacy, Wingate," he pronounced. "Phipps, as a matter of fact, is offering you considerably more than the shares are worth, because with their help he means to bring off a big thing." "If he relies upon my shares," was the indifferent reply, "I am afraid the big thing won't come off." "You won't sell, then?" "No!" Lord Dredlinton glanced for a moment at his finger nails.
"You've been tampering with my servants, damn you!" he exclaimed. "Well, they haven't been yours very long, have they?" Wingate reminded him. "So this is all part of a plot!" Dredlinton continued, with increasing apprehension. "They are in your pay, are they? It was only this morning I noticed all these new faces around me. God help us!" The words seemed to melt away from his lips.
Shall we say twenty thou, Wingate? A peeress and a saint! Gad, they aren't to be picked up every day!" "What on earth is he trying to sell?" Flossie demanded. Dredlinton turned with an evil grin. He had at least the courage of a drunken man, for he took no account of Wingate towering over him. "Don't you know?" he cried out. "Doesn't every one understand?" "Stop!" Wingate ordered.
I never thought it was worth anything, but here goes. What'll you bid, Phipps?" Phipps apprised the situation and decided upon his rôle. He had a very correct intuition as to what was likely to happen. "Sit down and don't be an ass, Dredlinton," he laughed. "Don't take the fellow seriously," he went on, speaking generally. "He's all right as long as you let him alone.
You don't want to quarrel with me, do you?" "Quarrel with you, Freddy?" Dredlinton replied, patting him on the back affectionately. "Not I! I'm too fond of you, old dear. You give too nice parties. Always the right sort of people except for that bounder over there," he went on, nodding his head towards Wingate. "Then sit down and don't make an ass of yourself," his host begged.
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