“Send to her ladyship’s room,” Wingate directed, “and enquire the name and address of Lord Dredlinton’s doctor.  Let him be fetched here at once.  Tell two of the others to come down.  Lord Dredlinton must be carried into his bedroom.”

The man had scarcely left the room before the door was opened again and Grant himself appeared.  This time he closed the door behind him and came a little way towards Wingate.

“Inspector Shields is here, sir,” he announced in an agitated whisper.

Wingate stood for a moment as though turned to stone.

“Inspector Shields?” he repeated.  “What does he want?”

“He wants to see Lord Dredlinton.  I explained that it was an inconvenient time, but he insisted upon waiting.”

Wingate hesitated for a moment, deep in thought.  The two exhausted men chuckled hideously.

“Some playing cards,” Wingate directed, suddenly breaking into speech.  “Open that sideboard, Grant.  Bring out the sandwiches and biscuits and fruit.  That’s right.  And some glasses.  Open the champagne quickly.  Cigars, too.  Here—­shut the door.  We must have a moment or two at this.  You understand, Grant—–­a debauch!”

The two moved about like lightning.  In an incredibly short time, the room presented a strange appearance.  The table before which the three men had kept their weary vigil was littered all over with playing cards, cigar ash, fragments of broken wine glasses.  A half-empty bottle of champagne stood on the floor.  Two empty ones, their contents emptied into some bowls of flowers, lay on their sides.  Another pack of cards was scattered upon the carpet.  A chair was overturned.  There was every indication of a late-night sitting and a debauch.  Last of all, Grant and Wingate between them carried the body of Lord Dredlinton behind the screen and laid it upon the sofa.  Then the latter stood back and surveyed his work.

“That will do,” he said.  “Wait one moment, Grant, before you show the inspector in.  I have a word to say first to my two friends here.”

Phipps scowled across the table, heavy-eyed and sullen.  There were black lines under his eyes, in which the gleam of hunger still lurked.  His hands were gripping a chunk of the bread which he had torn away from the loaf, but which he had seemed to eat with difficulty.

“Your friends may have something to say to you,” he muttered.  “If you think to stop our tongues, you’re wrong—­wrong, I tell you.  The game’s up for you, Wingate.  The wires that are ruining us this morning will be telling of your arrest to-night, eh?”

“You may be right,” Wingate answered coolly, “but I doubt it.  Listen.  Do you believe that I am a man who keeps his word?”

“Go on,” Phipps muttered.

“You are quite right in all that you have been saying, up to a certain point.  Tell the truth and I am done for, but you pay the price, both of you.  Under those circumstances, will it be worth your while to tell the truth?”