"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.