“Yes, they had better hurry,” Wingate said tersely.

Dredlinton pulled down the hook of the receiver desperately.

“Can’t you hear me, Exchange?” he shouted.  “Quick!  This is urgent!”

“Really,” Wingate remarked, “the telephone people seem almost as negligent as your servants.”

The receiver slipped from the hysterical man’s fingers.  He collapsed into a chair and leaned across the table.

“What does it mean?” he demanded hoarsely.  “No one will answer the bell.  I seem to be speaking through the telephone to a dead world.”

“If you really want some one, I dare say I can help you,” Wingate replied.  “The telephone was disconnected by my orders, as soon as you had spoken to Phipps’ rooms.  But—­now you are only wasting your time.”

Dredlinton had rushed to the door, shaken the handle violently, only to find it locked.  He pommelled with his fists upon the panels.

“Come, come,” his companion expostulated, “there is really no need for such extremes.  You want something, perhaps?  Allow me.”

Wingate crossed the room, rang the bell three times quickly, and stood in an easy attitude upon the hearth rug, with his hands behind his back.

“Let us see,” he said, “whether that has any effect or not.”

“Is this your house or mine?” Dredlinton demanded.

“Your house,” was the laconic reply, “but my servants.”

From outside was heard the sound of a turning key.  The door was opened.  Grant, the new butler, made his appearance,—­a thin, determined-looking man, with white hair and keen dark eyes, who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Andrew Slate.

“His lordship wants the whisky and soda brought in here, Grant,” Wingate told him, “and—­wait just a moment.—­You seem very much distressed about the disappearance of your friends, Lord Dredlinton.  Would you like to see them?”

“What?  See Stanley Rees and Peter Phipps now?”

“Yes!”

“You are talking nonsense!” Dredlinton shouted.  “You may know where they are—­I should think it is very likely that you do—­but you aren’t going to persuade me that you’ve got them here in my house—­that you can turn them loose when you choose to say the word!”

Wingate glanced across at the butler, who nodded understandingly and withdrew.  Dredlinton intercepted the look and shook his fist.

“You’ve been tampering with my servants, damn you!” he exclaimed.

“Well, they haven’t been yours very long, have they?” Wingate reminded him.

“So this is all part of a plot!” Dredlinton continued, with increasing apprehension.  “They are in your pay, are they?  It was only this morning I noticed all these new faces around me.—­God help us!”