“Everything goes well?” he asked, as he advanced rapidly into the room.

“Absolutely!”

“Good!  Where is your husband now?”

“Gone to his den to have a drink, I expect,” she replied.  “He is in a terrible state of nerves already.”

“I am afraid he will be worse before we’ve done with him,” Wingate remarked a little grimly.  “Josephine, just one moment!”

She was in his arms and forgetfulness enfolded them.  He felt the soft cling of her body, the warm sweetness of her lips.  It was she who disengaged herself.

“I am terrified of Henry coming back,” she admitted, as she moved reluctantly away.  “He is in one of his most hateful moods to-night.  Better than anything in the world he would love to make a scene.”

“He shall have all the opportunity he wants presently,” Wingate observed.

The door was opened with the soft abruptness of one who has approached it noiselessly by design.  Dredlinton stood upon the threshold, blinking a little as he gazed into the room.  He recognized Wingate with a start of amazement.

“Wingate?” he exclaimed.  “Why the mischief didn’t any one tell me you were here?”

“Mr. Wingate called to see me,” Josephine replied.

There was an ugly curl upon Dredlinton’s lips.  He opened his mouth and closed it again.  Then his truculent attitude suddenly vanished without the slightest warning.  He became an entirely altered person.

“Look here, Wingate,” he confessed, “on thinking it over, I believe I’ve been making rather an idiot of myself.  Josephine,” he went on, turning to his wife, “be so kind as to leave us alone for a short time.”

He opened the door.  Josephine hesitated for a moment, then, in response to a barely noticeable gesture from Wingate, she left the room.  Her husband closed the door carefully behind her.  His attitude, as he turned once more towards the other man, was distinctly conciliatory.

“Wingate,” he invited, “sit down, won’t you, and smoke a cigar with me.  Let us have a reasonable chat together, I am perfectly convinced that there is nothing for us to quarrel about.”

“Since when have you come to that conclusion, Lord Dredlinton?” Wingate asked, without abandoning his somewhat uncompromising attitude.

“Since our interview at the office.”

“You mean when you tried to blackmail me into selling my shipping shares?”

Dredlinton frowned.

“‘Blackmail’ is not a word to be used between gentlemen,” he protested.  “Look here, can’t you behave like a decent fellow—­an ordinary human being, you know?  You are not exactly my sort, but I am sure you’re a man of honour, I haven’t any objection to your friendship with my wife—­none in the world.”

“The sentiments which I entertain for your wife, Lord Dredlinton,” Wingate declared, “are not sentiments of friendship.”

Dredlinton paused in the act of lighting a cigar.