The words seemed to melt away from his lips.  The door had been flung open, and a queer little procession entered.  First of all came Grant, followed by a footman leading Peter Phipps by the arm.  Phipps’ hands were tied together.  A gag in the form of a respirator covered his mouth.  Cords which had apparently only just been unknotted were around each leg.  He had the expression, of a man completely dazed.  After him came another of the footmen leading Stanley Rees, who was in similar straits.  The latter, however, perhaps by reason of his longer detention, showed none of the passivity of his companion.  He struggled violently, even in the few yards between the door and the centre of the room, Wingate motioned to a third footman, who had followed behind.

“Pull out that round table,” he directed.  “Place three chairs around it.—­So!—­Sit down, Phipps.  Sit down, Rees.”

They obeyed, Rees only after a further useless struggle.  Dredlinton, who had been speechless for the last few seconds, gazed with horror-stricken eyes at the third chair.  Wingate smiled at him grimly.

“That third chair, Dredlinton,” he announced, “is for you.”

The terrified man made an ineffectual dash for the door.

“You mean to make a prisoner of me in my own house?” he shouted, as he found himself in the clutches of one of the footmen.  “What fool’s game is this?  You know you can’t keep it up, Wingate.  You’ll be transported, man.  Come, confess it’s a joke.  Tell that man to take these damned cords away.”

“It is a joke,” Wingate assured him gravely, “but it may need a very peculiar sense of humour to appreciate it.  However, you need not fear.  Your life is not threatened.—­Now, Dickenson, the loaf.”

The third man stepped back to the door and, from the hands of another servant who was waiting there, took an ordinary cottage loaf of bread.  The three men now were seated around the table, bound to their chairs and gagged.  In the middle of the table, just beyond their reach, Wingate, leaning over them, placed the loaf of bread.

“I am now,” he announced, standing a little back, “going to tell Grant to release your gags.  You will probably all try shouting.  I can assure you that it is quite hopeless.  This room looks out, as you know, upon a courtyard.  The street is on the other side of the house.  Every person under this roof is in my employ.  There is no earthly chance of your being heard by any one.  Still, if it pleases you to shout, shout!—­Now, Grant!”

The man unfastened the gags,—­first Phipps’, then Rees’, and finally Dredlinton’s.  Curiously enough, not one of the three men raised their voices.  Wingate’s words seemed to have impressed them.  Phipps drew one or two deep breaths, Stanley Rees rubbed his mouth on his sleeve.  Dredlinton was the only one who broke into anything approaching violent speech.

“My God, Wingate,” he exclaimed, “if you think I’ll ever forget this, you’re mistaken!  I’ll see you in prison for it, whatever it costs me!”