“Do people believe in—­their disappearance?”

“Not down here—­in the City, I mean,” Harrison replied grimly.  “To be frank with you, the market suspects a plant.”

“Let me,” Wingate suggested, “give you my impression as to the disappearance of three of your directors.”

“It would be very interesting,” Harrison murmured, his eyes following the hopeless efforts of a huge fly to escape through the closed window.

“I picture them to myself,” his visitor went on, “as indulging in a secret tour through the north of England—–­a tour undertaken in order that they may realise personally whether their tactics have really produced the suffering and distress reported.”

“Ah!”

“I picture them convinced.  I ask myself what would be their natural course of action.  Without a doubt, they would sell wheat.”

“Sell wheat” Harrison repeated.  “Yes!”

“They would be in a hurry,” Wingate continued.  “They would not wish to waste a moment.  They would probably telephone their instructions.”

From the great office outside came the hum of many voices, the shrill summons of many telephones, a continued knocking and shouting at the locked door.  To all these sounds Harrison remained stoically indifferent.  He was studying once more the pattern of the carpet.

“Telephone,” he repeated thoughtfully.

“It would be sufficient, if you recognized the voice?”

“Confirmation—­from a fellow director, I might have to ask for,” Harrison decided.

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing!”

“And how long would it take you to sell, say—­”

“I should prefer not to have quantities mentioned,” Harrison interrupted.  “When we start to sell in a dozen places, the thing is beyond exact calculation.  The brake can be put on if necessary.”

“I understand,” Wingate replied—–­“but I should think it probable, if the truth dawns upon our friends—­that no brake will be necessary.—­As regards your own affairs, Harrison?”

“I received your letter last night, sir.”

“You found its contents satisfactory?”

“I found them generous, sir.”

Wingate took up his hat and stick a moment or so later.

“My visit here,” he remarked, “might easily be misconstrued.  Would it be possible for me to leave without fighting my way through that mob?”

Harrison led the way through an inner room to a door opening out upon a passage.  Dark buildings frowned down upon them from either side.  The place was a curious little oasis from the noonday heat.  In the distance was a narrow vista of passing men and vehicles.  Harrison stood there with the handle of the door in his hand.  There was no farewell between him and his departing visitor, no sign of intelligence in his inscrutable face.

“Presuming that the disappearance of Mr. Phipps, Mr. Rees and Lord Dredlinton is accounted for by this supposed journey to the North,” he ventured, “when should you imagine that they might be communicating with me?”