y subject
in which I could share an interest with Mr. Phipps."

Lord Dredlinton was politely surprised.

"Is that so? Peter Phipps is an awfully good fellow."

"Mr. Phipps is a director of the British and Imperial Granaries,
Limited," Wingate said quietly.

"So am I," Lord Dredlinton announced, with a bland smile.

"I am aware of it," was the curt reply.

"You don't approve of our company?"

"I do not."

Lord Dredlinton shrugged his shoulders. He lit a cigarette and dismissed
the subject.

"Well, well," he continued amiably, "there is no need for us to quarrel,
I hope. We all look at things differently in this world, and,
fortunately, the matter which I want to discuss with you lies right
outside the operations of the B. & I. When can you give me a few moments
of your time, Mr. Wingate? Will you call around at our offices, Number
13 Throgmorton Street, next Tuesday morning at, say? eleven-thirty?"

Wingate was a little perplexed.

"I don't want to waste your time, Lord Dredlinton," he said. "Can't you
give me some idea as to the nature of this business?"

"To tell you the truth, I can't," the other confided. "It's more Phipps'
affair than mine. I'll promise, though, that we won't keep you for longer
than ten minutes."

"I will come then." Wingate acquiesced a little doubtfully. "I must warn
you, however, that between Phipps and myself there is a quarrel of
ancient standing. We meet as acquaintances because the conventions of the
world make anything else ridiculous. One of my objects in coming to this
side is to consider whether I can find any reasonable means of attacking
the very disgraceful trust with which you and he are associated."

Lord Dredlinton remained entirely unruffled. He shrugged his shoulders
with an air of protest.

"You are a little severe, Mr. Wingate," he said, "but I promise you that
Phipps shall keep his temper and that I will not be drawn into a quarrel.
I am very pleased to see you here. My wife's friends are always mine.--If
you will excuse me, I will go and change my clothes now. I have been
inveigled into the last word of our present-day frivolities--a theatrical
supper party."

He turned away, with an enigmatic smile at his wife and a ceremonious
bow to Wingate, and closed the door behind him carefully. They heard his
retreating footsteps on the stairs; then Wingate resumed his seat by
Josephine's side.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"Not a scrap," she replied. "Besides, it