“The ordinary principles of barter,” Wingate contended, “do not apply to material from which the people’s food is made.  I speak to you as man to man.  You have started an enterprise of which I and others declare ourselves the avowed enemies.  I am here to warn you, both of you,” he added, including Lord Dredlinton with a sweep of his hand, “directors of the British and Imperial Granaries, that unless you release and compel your agents to release such stocks of wheat as will bring bread down to a reasonable price, you stand in personal danger.  Is that clear enough?”

“Clear enough,” Dredlinton muttered, “but what the mischief does it all mean?”

“You threaten us?” Phipps asked calmly.

“I do indeed,” Wingate assented.  “I threaten you.  I threaten you.  Peter Phipps, you, Lord Dredlinton, and I threaten your absent directors.  I came over here prepared for something in the nature of a financial duel.  I came prepared to match my millions and my brain against yours.  I find no inducement to do so.  The struggle is uninspiring.  My efforts would only prolong it.  Quicker means must be found to deal with you.”

“You are misled as to your facts, Mr. Wingate,” Phipps expostulated.  “I can assure you that we are conducting a perfectly legitimate undertaking.  We have kept all the time well within the law.”

“You may be within the law of the moment,” was the stern reply, “but morally you are worse than the most outrageous bucket-shop keepers of Wall Street.  Legislation may be slow and Parliament hampered by precedent, but the people have never wanted champions when they have a righteous cause.  I tell you that you cannot carry this thing through.  Better disgorge your profits and sell while you have a chance.”

Dredlinton tapped a cigarette against his desk and lit it.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “you really ought to go into Parliament.  Such eloquence is rather wasted in a City office.”

“I rather imagined that it would be,” Wingate assented.  “At the same time, I warned you that if I came I should speak my mind.”

Phipps did his best for peace.  This was his enemy with whom he was now face to face, but the final issue was not yet.  He spoke suavely and persuasively.

“Come, come,” he said, “Wingate, you have changed since you and I fought our battles in New York and Chicago.  To-day you seem to be representing a very worthy but misguided class of the community—­the sentimentalists.  They are invariably trying to alter by legislation conditions which are automatic.  It is true that our operations over here may temporarily make bread dearer, but on the other hand we may be facing the other way within a month.  We may be sellers of wheat, and the loaf then will be cheaper than it ever has been.  I am an Englishman, and it is not my desire to add to the sufferings of my fellow countrymen.”

“You don’t care a damn about any one’s sufferings,” Wingate retorted, “so long as you can make money out of them.”