“The whole stock,” Wingate interrupted, “every bushel.”

“Sell the whole stock,” Rees repeated wearily.

Wingate replaced the telephone upon a distant table.  Then he mixed a little brandy and water in two glasses, broke off a piece of bread, set it before the two men and rang the bell.  It was answered in an incredibly short space of time.

“Grant,” he directed, “bring in the breakfast trays in ten minutes.”

The man disappeared as silently as he had come.  Wingate cut the knots and released the hands of his two prisoners.  Their fingers were numb and helpless, however.  Rees picked up the bread with his teeth from the table.  Phipps tried but failed.  Wingate held the tumbler of brandy and water once more to his lips.

“Here, take this,” he invited.  “You’ll find the circulation come back all right directly.”

“Aren’t you going to give him anything?” Phipps asked, moving his head towards Dredlinton.

“He is asleep,” Wingate answered.  “Better leave him alone until breakfast is ready.”

The telephone bell tinkled.  Wingate brought back the instrument and held out a receiver each to Phipps and his nephew.

“Harrison speaking.  Your messages have all gone through on the trunk lines, sir.  The sales have begun already, and the whole market is in a state of collapse.  If you are coming down, I should advise you, sir, to come in by the back entrance.  There’ll be a riot here when the news gets about.”

Wingate removed the telephone once more.

“And now,” he suggested, “you would like a wash, perhaps?  Or first we’d better wake Dredlinton.”

He leaned over and touched the crouching form upon the shoulder.  There was no response.

“Dredlinton,” he said firmly, “wake up.  Your vigil is over.”

Again there was no response.  Wingate leaned over and lifted him up bodily by both shoulders.  Rees went off into a fit of idiotic laughter.  Phipps stretched out his hands before his eyes.  It was a terrible sight upon which they looked,—­Dredlinton’s face like a piece of marble, white to the lips, the eyes open and staring, the unmistakable finger of Death written across it.

“He’s gone!” Rees choked.  “He’s gone!”

Phipps suddenly found vigour once more in his arm.  He struck the table.  There was a note of triumph in his brazen tone.

“My God, Wingate,” he cried, “you’ve killed him!  You’ll swing for this job, after all!”

There followed a few moments of tense and awestruck silence.  Then an evil smile parted Rees’ lips, and he looked at Wingate with triumphant malice.

“This is murder!” he exclaimed.

“So your excellent uncle has already intimated,” Wingate replied.  “I am sorry that it has happened, of course.  As for the consequences, however, I do not fear them.”

He crossed the room and rang the bell.  Once more a servant in plain clothes made his appearance with phenomenal quickness.