"You're a brick," Sarah whispered in his ear. "Come and see me off the premises, there's a dear. Jimmy won't be ready for hours yet and I want to get home."
Wingate rose at once, made his adieux and accompanied Sarah to the door, followed by a reproachful glance from Flossie. The former took his arm and held it tightly as they passed along the corridor.
"I think that you are the dearest man I ever knew, Mr. Wingate," she said, "just as I think that Josephine is the dearest woman, and I hope more than anything in the world—well, you know what I hope."
"I think I do," Wingate replied. "Thank you."
CHAPTER X
Andrew Slate, a very personable man in his spring clothes of grey tweed, took up his hat and prepared to depart. Half-past twelve had just struck by Wingate's clock, and the two men had been together since ten.
"You're a wonderful person, Wingate," Slate said, with a note of genuine admiration in his tone. "I don't believe there's another man breathing who would have had the courage to plan a coup like this."
Wingate shrugged his shoulders.
"The men who dig deep into life," he replied, as he shook hands, "are the men who take risks. I was never meant to be one of those who scratch about on the surface."
A note was slipped into his letter box as he let Slate out. He noticed the coronet on the envelope and opened it eagerly. A glance at the signature brought him disappointment. He read it slowly, with a hard smile upon his lips: