"Well, I am given to understand that he is coming into the City to do business," Phipps continued. "If he is in any way disposed to be a seller, we are buyers of wheat for autumn delivery at market price, perhaps even a shade over." "Any quantity?" Kendrick enquired. "A hundred thousand--anything up to a million bushels, if Mr. Wingate feels like coming in big. Anyway, we're ready to talk business. Will you put it up to your client?" "I will." "Shall you be seeing him soon?" "This morning, probably." "Thought you might," the voice at the other end of the telephone observed, "as I saw him step into your office half an hour ago. Give him my compliments and say I hope we may make a deal together." "Certainly," Kendrick promised. "Good morning." The two men laid down their receivers. Kendrick's eyes twinkled. "Well, that fellow's a sport, anyway," he declared. "I suppose in one sense of the word he is," Wingate admitted. "So he wants me to sell him wheat, eh? It looks a good thing at these prices, Kendrick, doesn't it, and a normal harvest coming along on the other side?" "That's for you to say," was the cautious reply. "These big deals in commodities which have to be delivered on a certain date always seem to me a little out of the sphere of legitimate gambling." "At the same time," Wingate remarked, "the price of wheat to-day is scandalous. If the B. & I. forced it up any higher, I should think that the Government must intervene." "I shouldn't reckon upon it." "Naturally! I shouldn't enter into a gamble, taking that as a certainty. At the same time, I want to view the matter in all its bearings. I can't conceive any private firm being allowed to boost up the price of wheat to such an extent for purposes of speculation." "It would be devilish difficult," Kendrick pointed out, "to trace the whole thing to the B. & I." Wingate took a cigarette from the open box upon the office table, lit it and smoked for a moment thoughtfully. "Kendrick," he said, "I am a good friend and a good enemy; Peter Phipps is my enemy. We should probably shake hands if we met, we might even sit down at the same table, but we know the truth. Each of us in his heart desires nothing in the world so much as the ruin of the other." "What was the start of this feeling?" Kendrick asked. "A woman," Wingate replied shortly, "and that's all there is to be said about it, Kendrick. I shall hate Peter Phipps as long as I live, for the sake of the girl he ruined, and he will hate me because of the thrashing I gave him. Ever noticed the scar on his right cheek, Kendrick?" "Often," the stockbroker replied. "He told me it was done in a saloon fight out in the Far West." "I did it in the Far East," Wingate declared grimly, "as far east, at least, as the drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue house. He'll never lose that scar. He'll never lose his hatred of the man who gave it to him.--So he wants me to sell him wheat!"