"Here, take this," he invited. "You'll find the circulation come back all right directly."
"Aren't you going to give him anything?" Phipps asked, moving his head towards Dredlinton.
"He is asleep," Wingate answered. "Better leave him alone until breakfast is ready."
The telephone bell tinkled. Wingate brought back the instrument and held out a receiver each to Phipps and his nephew.
"Harrison speaking. Your messages have all gone through on the trunk lines, sir. The sales have begun already, and the whole market is in a state of collapse. If you are coming down, I should advise you, sir, to come in by the back entrance. There'll be a riot here when the news gets about."
Wingate removed the telephone once more.
"And now," he suggested, "you would like a wash, perhaps? Or first we'd better wake Dredlinton."
He leaned over and touched the crouching form upon the shoulder. There was no response.
"Dredlinton," he said firmly, "wake up. Your vigil is over."
Again there was no response. Wingate leaned over and lifted him up bodily by both shoulders. Rees went off into a fit of idiotic laughter. Phipps stretched out his hands before his eyes. It was a terrible sight upon which they looked,—Dredlinton's face like a piece of marble, white to the lips, the eyes open and staring, the unmistakable finger of Death written across it.