“Up to the present, my lord,” the inspector confessed, “we certainly have no clue.”

“But, dash it all, you must have some idea as to what has become of him?” his questioner insisted.  “Young men don’t disappear through the windows of the Milan Bar, do they?”

“If you assure us, my lord, that we may rule out any idea of a voluntary disappearance—­”

“Voluntary disappearance be damned!” Dredlinton interrupted.  “Don’t let me hear any more of such rubbish!  I can assure you that such a supposition is absolutely out of the question.”

“Then in that case, my lord, I may put it to you that Mr. Rees’ disappearance is due to the action of no ordinary criminal or blackmailer, but is part of a much more deeply laid scheme.”

“Exactly what do you mean?” was the almost fierce demand.

“It appears that Mr. Rees,” the inspector went on, speaking with some emphasis, “is connected with an undertaking which during the last few weeks has provoked a wave of anger and disgust throughout the country.”

“Are you referring to the British and Imperial Granaries, Limited?” his interlocutor enquired.

“That, I believe, is the name of the company.”

Lord Dredlinton’s anxiety visibly increased.  He was standing underneath the suspended globe of the electric light, his fingers nervously pulling to pieces the cigarette which he had been smoking.  There was a look of fear in his weak eyes.  Josephine surveyed him thoughtfully.  The coward in him had flared up, and there was no room for any other characteristic.  Fear was written in his face, trembled in his tone, betrayed itself in his gestures.

“But, dash it all,” he expostulated, “there are other directors!  I am one myself.  Don’t you see how serious this all is?  If Rees can be spirited away and no one be able to lift up a finger to help him, what about the rest of us?”

“It was in my mind to warn your lordship,” Shields observed.

Dredlinton’s fear merged into fury,—­a blind and nerveless passion.

“But this is outrageous!” he exclaimed, striking the table with his fist.  “Do you mean to say that you can come here to me from Scotland Yard—­to me, a peer of England, living in the heart of London—­and tell me that a friend and a business connection of mine has been kidnapped and practically warn me against the same fate?  What on earth do we pay our police for?  What sort of a country are we living in?  Are you all nincompoops?”

“We remain what we are, notwithstanding your lordship’s opinion,” the inspector answered, with a shade of sarcasm in his level tone.  “I may add that I am not the only one engaged in this Investigation, and I can only do my duty according to the best of my ability.”

“You’ve done nothing—­nothing at all!” Dredlinton protested angrily.  “Added to that, you actually come here and warn me that I, too, may be the victim of a plot, against the ringleaders of which you seem to be helpless.  The British and Imperial Granaries is a perfectly legitimate company doing a perfectly legitimate business.  We’re not out for our health—­who is in the City?  If we can make money out of wheat, it’s our business and nobody else’s.”