“Nothing quite so crude, Wingate,” he said.  “I know an enemy when I see one, but I wasn’t thinking of getting rid of you that way.”

“I have found it necessary,” Wingate remarked slowly, “to be prepared for all sorts of tricks when I am up against anybody as conscienceless as you.  I don’t want you here, Phipps.  I didn’t ask you to come and see me.  I’ve nothing to discuss with you.”

“There are times,” Phipps replied, “when the issue which cannot be fought out to the end with arms can be joined in the council chamber.  I have come to know your terms.”

Wingate shook his head.

“I don’t understand.  It is too soon for this sort of thing.  You are not beaten yet.”

“I am tired,” his visitor muttered.  “May I sit down?”

“You are an unwelcome guest,” Wingate replied coldly, “but sit if you will.  Then say what you have to say and go.”

Phipps sank into an easy-chair.  It was obvious that he was telling the truth so far as regarded his fatigue.  He seemed to have aged ten years.

“I have been down below in Stanley’s rooms,” he explained, “been through his papers.  It’s true what the inspector fellow reports.  There isn’t a scrap of evidence of any complication in his life.  There isn’t a shadow of doubt in my mind as to the cause of his disappearance.”

“Indeed!” Wingate murmured.

“It’s a villainous plot, engineered by you!” Phipps continued, his voice shaking.  “I’m fond of the boy.  That’s why I’ve come to you.  Name your terms.”

Wingate indulged in a curious bout of silence.  He took a pipe from a rack, filled it leisurely with tobacco, lit it and smoked for several moments.  Then he turned towards his unwelcome companion.

“I am debarred by a promise made to myself,” he said coldly, “from offering you any form of hospitality.  If you wish to smoke, I shall not interfere.”

Phipps shook his head.

“I have not smoked all the evening,” he confessed, “I cannot.  You are right when you say that we are not beaten, but I like to look ahead.  I want to know your terms.”

“You are anxious about your nephew?”

“Yes!”

“And why do you connect me with his disappearance?”

Phipps gave a little weary gesture.

“I am so sick of words,” he said.

“We will argue the matter, then,” conceded Wingate, “from your point of view.  Supposing that your nephew has been abducted and is held at the present moment as a hostage.  It would be, without doubt, by some person or persons who resented the brutality, the dishonesty, the foul commercial methods of the company with which he was connected.  An amendment of those methods might produce his release.”

“And that amendment?”

Wingate picked up a newspaper and glanced at it, pulled a heavy gold pencil from his chain and made a few calculations.