"If you really want some one, I dare say I can help you," Wingate replied. "The telephone was disconnected by my orders, as soon as you had spoken to Phipps' rooms. But--now you are only wasting your time." Dredlinton had rushed to the door, shaken the handle violently, only to find it locked. He pommelled with his fists upon the panels. "Come, come," his companion expostulated, "there is really no need for such extremes. You want something, perhaps? Allow me." Wingate crossed the room, rang the bell three times quickly, and stood in an easy attitude upon the hearth rug, with his hands behind his back. "Let us see," he said, "whether that has any effect or not." "Is this your house or mine?" Dredlinton demanded. "Your house," was the laconic reply, "but my servants." From outside was heard the sound of a turning key. The door was opened. Grant, the new butler, made his appearance,--a thin, determined-looking man, with white hair and keen dark eyes, who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Andrew Slate. "His lordship wants the whisky and soda brought in here, Grant," Wingate told him, "and--wait just a moment.--You seem very much distressed about the disappearance of your friends, Lord Dredlinton. Would you like to see them?" "What? See Stanley Rees and Peter Phipps now?" "Yes!" "You are talking nonsense!" Dredlinton shouted. "You may know where they are--I should think it is very likely that you do--but you aren't going to persuade me that you've got them here in my house--that you can turn them loose when you choose to say the word!" Wingate glanced across at the butler, who nodded understandingly and withdrew. Dredlinton intercepted the look and shook his fist. "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. The door had been flung open, and a queer little procession entered. First of all came Grant, followed by a footman leading Peter Phipps by the arm. Phipps' hands were tied together. A gag in the form of a respirator covered his mouth. Cords which had apparently only just been unknotted were around each leg. He had the expression, of a man completely dazed. After him came another of the footmen leading Stanley Rees, who was in similar straits. The latter, however, perhaps by reason of his longer detention, showed none of the passivity of his companion. He struggled violently, even in the few yards between the door and the centre of the room, Wingate motioned to a third footman, who had followed behind. "Pull out that round table," he directed. "Place three chairs around it.--So!--Sit down, Phipps. Sit down, Rees."