In the Board room of the British and Imperial Granaries, Limited, were four vacant chairs and four unoccupied desks, each of the latter piled with a mass of letters. Outside was disquietude, in the street almost a riot. Callers were compelled to form themselves into a queue,—and left with scanty comfort. Wingate, by what seemed to be special favour, was passed through the little throng and ushered by Harrison himself into the deserted Board room.

"So you have no news of any of your directors, Harrison?" the former observed.

"None whatever, sir."

The two men exchanged long and in a way searching glances. Harrison was, as always, the lank and cadaverous nonentity, the man of negative suspicions and infinite reserves. His eyes were fixed upon the carpet. He was a study in passivity.

"What happens to the business, eh—to your big operations?"
Wingate enquired.

"The business suffers to some extent, of course," Harrison admitted.

"Your banking arrangements?"

"I have limited powers of signature. So far the bank has been lenient."

"I see," Wingate ruminated,—and waited.

"The general policy of the firm is, as you are aware, to buy," Harrison continued thoughtfully. "That policy has naturally been suspended during the last forty-eight hours. There are rumours, too, of a large shipment of wheat from an unexpected source, by some steamers which we had failed to take account of. Prices are dropping every hour."

"Materially?"

The confidential clerk shook his head.

"Only by points and fractions. The market is never sure of our principals. Sometimes when they have bought, most largely they have remained inactive for a few days beforehand, on purpose to depress prices."

"Do people believe in—their disappearance?"

"Not down here—in the City, I mean," Harrison replied grimly. "To be frank with you, the market suspects a plant."

"Let me," Wingate suggested, "give you my impression as to the disappearance of three of your directors."

"It would be very interesting," Harrison murmured, his eyes following the hopeless efforts of a huge fly to escape through the closed window.

"I picture them to myself," his visitor went on, "as indulging in a secret tour through the north of England—-a tour undertaken in order that they may realise personally whether their tactics have really produced the suffering and distress reported."

"Ah!"

"I picture them convinced. I ask myself what would be their natural course of action. Without a doubt, they would sell wheat."

"Sell wheat" Harrison repeated. "Yes!"

"They would be in a hurry," Wingate continued. "They would not wish to waste a moment. They would probably telephone their instructions."

From the great office outside came the hum of many voices, the shrill summons of many telephones, a continued knocking and shouting at the locked door. To all these sounds Harrison remained stoically indifferent. He was studying once more the pattern of the carpet.

"Telephone," he repeated thoughtfully.

"It would be sufficient, if you recognized the voice?"

"Confirmation—from a fellow director, I might have to ask for,"
Harrison decided.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing!"

"And how long would it take you to sell, say—"

"I should prefer not to have quantities mentioned," Harrison interrupted. "When we start to sell in a dozen places, the thing is beyond exact calculation. The brake can be put on if necessary."

"I understand," Wingate replied—-"but I should think it probable, if the truth dawns upon our friends—that no brake will be necessary.—As regards your own affairs, Harrison?"

"I received your letter last night, sir."

"You found its contents satisfactory?"

"I found them generous, sir."

Wingate took up his hat and stick a moment or so later.

"My visit here," he remarked, "might easily be misconstrued. Would it be possible for me to leave without fighting my way through that mob?"

Harrison led the way through an inner room to a door opening out upon a passage. Dark buildings frowned down upon them from either side. The place was a curious little oasis from the noonday heat. In the distance was a narrow vista of passing men and vehicles. Harrison stood there with the handle of the door in his hand. There was no farewell between him and his departing visitor, no sign of intelligence in his inscrutable face.

"Presuming that the disappearance of Mr. Phipps, Mr. Rees and Lord Dredlinton is accounted for by this supposed journey to the North," he ventured, "when should you imagine that they might be communicating with me?"

"About dawn to-morrow," Wingate replied. "You will be here."

"I never leave," was the quiet answer. "About dawn to-morrow?"

"Or before."

Josephine asked the same question in a different manner when Wingate entered her little sitting room a few hours later.

"They are obstinate?" she enquired curiously.

He sipped the tea which she had handed to him.

"Very," he admitted, "yet, after all, why not? If we succeed, it is, at any rate, the end of their private fortunes, of Phipps' ambitions and your husband's dreams of wealth."

"So much the better," she declared sadly. "More money with Henry has only meant a greater eagerness to get rid of it."

A companionship which had no need of words seemed to have sprung up between them. They sat together for some minutes without speech, minutes during which the deep silence which reigned throughout the house seemed curiously accentuated. Josephine shivered.

"I shall never know what happiness is," she declared, "until I have left this house—never to return!"

"That will not be long," he reminded her gravely.

She placed her hand on his.

"It is full of the ghosts of my sorrows," she went on. "I have known misery here."

"And I one evening of happiness," he said, smiling.

Her eyes glowed for a moment, but she was disturbed, tremulous, agitated.

"I listen for footsteps in the streets," she confessed. "I am afraid!"

"Needlessly," he assured her. "I know for a fact that Shields is off the scent."

"But he is not a fool," she answered hastily.

Wingate's smile was full of confidence.

"Dear," he said, "I do not believe that you have anything to fear. There have been no loose ends left. Behind your front door is safety."

"The man Shields—I only saw him for a few minutes, but he impressed me," she sighed.

"Shields is, without doubt, a capable person," Wingate admitted, "but he could only succeed in this case by blind guessing. Stanley Rees was brought into this house through the mews, without observation from any living person. Phipps, when he received that supposed message from you, was only too anxious to come the same way. They left their respective abodes for here in a secrecy which they themselves encouraged, for Rees imagined that your husband had urgent need of him, and Phipps was ass enough to believe that your summons meant what he wished it to mean. There has been no leakage of information anywhere.—Honestly, Josephine, I think that you may banish your fears."

"A woman's fears only, dear," she admitted, as she gave him her hands. "Why did nature make my sex pessimists and yours optimists, I wonder? I would so much rather look towards the sun."

"Soon," he promised her with a smile, "I shall dominate your subconscious mind. You shall see the colours of life through my eyes. You will find your long-delayed happiness."

The tears which stood in her eyes were of unalloyed content,—the drama so close at hand was forgotten. Their hands remained clasped for a moment. Then he left her.

Back into that room with its strange mystery of shadows, its odour of mingled tragedy and absurdity. Grant rose from a high-backed chair guarding the table, as Wingate approached. The latter glanced towards the three men crouching around the table. Their white faces gleamed weirdly against the background of shaded light. There were black lines under Dredlinton's eyes. He made a gurgling effort at speech,—his muttered words were only partly coherent.

"I resign! I resign!"

Wingate shook his head.

"I am afraid, Lord Dredlinton," he said, "that you are in the hands of your fellow directors. One may not be released without the others. Directly you can induce Mr. Phipps and Mr. Rees to see reason, you will all three be restored to liberty. Until then I am afraid that you must share the inevitable inconveniences connected with your enforced stay here."

Phipps lurched towards him with a furious gesture. Wingate only smiled as he threw himself into his easy-chair.

"Wheat is falling very slowly," he announced. "Every one is waiting for the B. & I. to sell.—You can go now, Grant," he added, "I will take up the watch myself."