"It's making us damned unpopular," Dredlinton grumbled.
"For the moment," the other agreed, "but remember this. There was never such a thing as an unpopular millionaire known in history, so long as he chose to spend his money."
Dredlinton drew a letter from his pocket and handed it across the table.
"Read that," he invited. "It's the fifth I've had within the last two days."
Phipps glanced at the beginning and the end, and threw it carelessly back.
"Pooh! A threatening letter!" he exclaimed. "Why, I had a dozen of those this morning. My secretary is making a scrapbook of them."
"That one of mine seems pretty definite, doesn't it?" Dredlinton remarked nervously.
"Some of mine were uncommonly plain-spoken," Phipps acknowledged, "but what's the odds? You're not a coward, Dredlinton; neither am I. Neither is Skinflint Martin, nor Stanley. Chuck letters like that on the fire, as they have, and keep cheerful. The streets of London are the safest place in the world. No cable from your friend in New York yet?"
"Not a word," Dredlinton answered. "I expected it last night. You haven't forgotten that Wingate's due here this morning—that is, if he keeps his appointment?"
"Forgotten it? Not likely!" Phipps replied. "I was going to talk to you about that. We must have those shares. The fact of it is the Universal Line has played us false, the only shipping company which has. They promised to advise us of all proposed wheat cargoes, and they haven't kept their word. If my information is correct, and I expect confirmation of it at any moment in the cable I arranged to have sent to you, they have eleven steamers being loaded this very week. It's a last effort on the part of the Liverpool ring to break us."