"You don't mean Phipps—Dreadnought Phipps?" Slate exclaimed, suddenly laying down his knife and fork.
"I do," Wingate answered. "We are up against each other once more, and, believe me, Slate, this is going to be the last time."
There was a smouldering fire in Slate's fine eyes. Nevertheless, he seemed disturbed.
"You're up against a big thing, Wingate," he said. "Peter Phipps has made good over here. They say that he's coining money in this new company of his."
"I'm after his blood, all the same," Wingate replied. "We've had several tussles since—"
Wingate hesitated.
"Since you nearly beat the breath out of his body," Slate interrupted, with a little shiver.
"Yes, we've had several tussles since then," Wingate repeated, "and we haven't hurt each other much. This time I think one of us is going under. Phipps wants to join issue with me in the City. I'm not so sure. I'm out to break him properly this time, and I am not going to rush in until I know the ropes."
Slate emptied a glass of wine and leaned forward.
"John," he said, relapsing once more into the familiarity of their early college days, "you couldn't have set me a job more to my heart than to have me help in brewing mischief for Peter Phipps. I'm your man, body and soul—you know that. But you've been a good friend to me—almost the only one I ever had—and I've got to put this up to you. Peter Phipps is as clever as the devil. He is up to every trick in this world, and a few that he probably borrowed from Satan himself. I'm not trying to put you off. I only want to say this. Go warily. Don't let him lure you on into risking too much on any one move. Always remember that he has something up his sleeve."