The pseudo-servant lingered, his eyes fixed upon Wingate's face. He, too, was an underling of Grant's,—a keen, intelligent-looking man, with broad shoulders and a powerful face. Wingate nodded understandingly.
"I will ring if I need you, John," he said quietly.
The man left the room. Wingate sat upon the arm of an easy-chair. Shields stood looking meditatively about him, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets.
"What is the physician's report?" the former asked.
The inspector seemed to come back from a brown study.
"Ah! Upon Lord Dredlinton? A very good report from your point of view, Mr. Wingate. Lord Dredlinton's death was due to exhaustion, but the doctor certifies that he was suffering, and has been for some time, from advanced valvular disease of the heart."
"He had not the appearance," Wingate observed, "of being a healthy man."
"He certainly was not," Shields admitted. "On the other hand, with great care he might have lived for some time. The immediate cause of his death was the strain of—what shall we call it, Mr. Wingate—this orgy?"
"An excellent word," Wingate agreed, his eyes fixed upon his companion.
The inspector lifted one of the packs of cards which had been dashed upon the table and looked at them thoughtfully.