"City 1000," he began.—"Yes!—British and Imperial—Right! Mr. Harrison there?—Ask him to come to the 'phone, please.—Harrison? Good! Wait a moment. Mr. Phipps will speak to you."
Wingate held the telephone before the half-unconscious man. Phipps swayed towards it.
"Yes? That Harrison?—Mr. Phipps.—No, it's quite all right. We've been away, Mr. Rees and I. We've decided—"
He reeled a little in his chair. Wingate poured some brandy from his flask into the little metal cup and held it out. Phipps drank it greedily.
"Go on now."
"We have decided," Phipps continued, "to sell wheat—to sell, you understand? You are to telephone Liverpool, Manchester, Lincoln, Glasgow, Bristol and Cardiff. Establish the price of sixty shillings.—Yes, that's right—sixty shillings.—What is that you say?—You want confirmation?—Mr. Rees will speak."
Wingate passed the telephone to the next man; also his flask, which he held for a moment to his lips. Rees gurgled greedily. His voice sounded strained, however, and cracked.
"Mr. Rees speaking, Harrison.—Yes, we are back. We'll be around at the office later on. You got Mr. Phipps' message?—We've made up our minds to sell wheat—sell it. What the devil does it matter to you why? We are selling it to save—"
Wingate's pistol had stolen from his pocket. Rees glared at it for a moment and then went on.
"To save an injunction from the Government. We have private information.
They have determined to find our dealings in wheat illegal.—Yes, Mr.
Phipps meant what he said—sixty shillings.—Use all our long-distance
wires. How long will it take you?—A quarter of an hour?—Eh?"