"Under these circumstances, do you wish to repudiate your bargain?" he asked. "We must at least know where we are."
Wingate turned to Josephine.
"The matter," he decided, "is not in my hands. 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. That I do not believe, but, to save proceedings which might be distasteful to you, I was prepared to sell Mr. Phipps my shares in the Universal Line, imagining it to be an ordinary business transaction. The cable which you have just read has revealed the true reason why Phipps desires to acquire those shares. The arrival of that wheat will force down prices, for a time, at any rate. It may even drive this accursed company into seeking some other field of speculation. What shall I do?"
She smiled at him over her husband's head. She did not hesitate even for a second. Her tone was proud and insistent.
"You must of course keep your shares," she declared. "As regards the other matter, my husband can do as he thinks well."
Wingate's eyes flashed his thanks. He drew a little sigh of relief and deliberately tore in halves the agreement which he had been holding. Dredlinton leaned over the desk, snatched at the telephone receiver, threw himself into his chair, and, glared first at Wingate and then at his wife.
"My God, then," he exclaimed furiously, "I'll keep my word!—Mayfair 67.—I'll drag you through the dust, my lady," he went on. "You shall be the heroine of one of those squalid divorce cases you've spoken of so scornfully. You shall crawl through life a divorcee, made an honest woman through the generosity of an American adventurer!—67, Mayfair, I said."
Phipps shook his head sorrowfully.
"My friend," he said, "this is useless bluster. Put down the telephone. Let us talk the matter out squarely. 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."