"Don't want a drink," Dredlinton replied, shaking himself free from Kendrick's grasp. "Want to keep my head clear. Big deal, this. May reestablish the fortunes of a fallen family. Gad, it's a night for all you outsiders to remember, this!" he went on, glancing insolently around the table. "Don't often have the chance of seeing a nobleman selling his household treasures. Come on, Wingate. Phipps is shy about starting. Let's have your bid. What about ten thou, eh?"
Wingate came slowly around the table. His eyes never left Dredlinton. Dredlinton, too, watched him like a cat, watched him drawing nearer and nearer.
"What, do you want to whisper your bid?" he jeered. "Out with it like a man! This is a unique opportunity. Heaven knows when you may get the chance again! Shall we say twenty thou, Wingate? A peeress and a saint! Gad, they aren't to be picked up every day!"
"What on earth is he trying to sell?" Flossie demanded.
Dredlinton turned with an evil grin. He had at least the courage of a drunken man, for he took no account of Wingate towering over him.
"Don't you know?" he cried out. "Doesn't every one understand?"
"Stop!" Wingate ordered.
"And why the hell should I stop for you?" Dredlinton shouted. "If Flossie wants to know, here's the truth. It's the least cherished of all my household goods. It's my wife."
Of what happened during the next few seconds, or rather of the manner of its happening, few people were able to render a coherent account. All that they remembered was a most amazing spectacle,—the spectacle of Wingate walking quietly to the door with Dredlinton in his arms, kicking and shouting smothered profanities, but absolutely powerless to free himself. The door was opened by a waiter, and Wingate passed into the corridor. A maître d'hôtel, with presence of mind, hurried up to him.
"Have you an empty room with a key?" Wingate asked.