Wingate smiled grimly.
"I neither drink nor smoke to excess," he explained, "and as a rule I keep regular hours. Perhaps that is why, if I choose to sit up all night, I am able to stand it."
There was a knock at the door and Grant presented himself. To all appearance he was, as ever, the perfect butler. It was only Wingate who saw that quick, questioning look, the hovering of his hand about his pocket; who knew that, if necessary, there was no risk which this man would not run.
"The doctor has arrived, sir," he announced.
"You had better show him in," Wingate replied. "And, Grant."
"Yes, sir?"
"It would be as well, I think, to let her ladyship be informed that Lord
Dredlinton is ill—very ill."
The man bowed and stood on one side as the doctor entered. The latter paused for a moment in astonishment as he looked upon the scene. Then he moved towards one of the windows and threw it up.
"If Lord Dredlinton has been sitting for long in an atmosphere like this," he observed drily, "it's enough to have killed him."
He glanced around with an air of distaste at Phipps and Rees, at the debris of the presumed debauch, and stooped over the body stretched upon the sofa. His examination lasted barely a minute. Then he rose to his feet.