was the start of this feeling?" Kendrick asked.
"A woman," Wingate replied shortly, "and that's all there is to be said about it, Kendrick. I shall hate Peter Phipps as long as I live, for the sake of the girl he ruined, and he will hate me because of the thrashing I gave him. Ever noticed the scar on his right cheek, Kendrick?"
"Often," the stockbroker replied. "He told me it was done in a saloon fight out in the Far West."
"I did it in the Far East," Wingate declared grimly, "as far east, at least, as the drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue house. He'll never lose that scar. He'll never lose his hatred of the man who gave it to him.—So he wants me to sell him wheat!"
"It's a pretty dangerous thing to introduce feelings of this sort into business," Kendrick remarked.
"You're right," Wingate admitted. "It makes one careful. I'm not selling any wheat to-day, Kendrick."
"It will be a disappointment to the office," the other remarked.
"Personally, I'm glad."
"Oh, I'll keep your office busy," Wingate promised. "I'm not coming into the City for nothing, I can assure you. There are five commissions for you," he went on, drawing a sheet of paper from the rack and writing on it rapidly. "That will keep your office busy for a time. I'll give you a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. Don't ring me up unless you want more margin. Closing time prices are all I'm interested in, and I can get those on the tape anywhere."
The stockbroker's eyes glistened as he looked through the list.
"You're a good judge, Wingate," he said. "You'll make money on most of these."
"I expect I shall," Wingate acknowledged. "Anyhow, it will keep you people busy and serve as a sort of visiting card here for me until—"
"Until what?" Kendrick asked, breaking a short pause.
"Until I can make up my mind how to deal with those fellows across the way. On paper it still looks a good thing to sell them wheat, you know. Peter Phipps has something up his sleeve for me, though. I've got to try and find out what it is."
"You'll excuse me for a moment?" Kendrick begged. "I'm only a human being, and I can't hold a couple of million pounds' worth of business in my hand and not set it going. I'll be back directly."
"Don't hurry on my account," Wingate replied. "I'm going to use your telephone, if I may."
"Of course! You have a private line there. The others will be all buzzing away in a minute. I'll send Jenkins and Poore along to the House. What about lunch?"
"To-morrow, one o'clock at the Milan," Wingate appointed. "I'm busy to-day."
CHAPTER IV
Wingate made his way from the City to Shaftesbury Avenue, where he entered a block of offices, studied the direction board on the wall for a few minutes, and finally took the lift to the fourth floor. Exactly opposite to him across the uncarpeted corridor was a door from which half the varnish had peeled off, on which was painted in white letters—MR. ANDREW SLATE. A knock on the panel resulted in an immediate invitation to enter. Wingate turned the handle, entered and closed the door behind him. The man who was the solitary occupant of the room half rose from behind his desk.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
Wingate was in no hurry to reply. He took rapid stock of his surroundings and of the man who had confronted him. The room was small, none too clean and badly furnished. It reeked with the smell of tobacco, and notwithstanding the warmth of the June day, all the windows were tightly closed. Its occupant, a lank man with a smooth but wizened face, straight white hair and dark, piercing eyes, was in accord with his surroundings—shabby, unkempt, with cigarette ash down the front of his coat, his collar none too clean, his tie awry.
"Hm!" Wingate remarked, "Seems to me you're not taking care of yourself,
Andrew. Do you mind if I open a window or two?"
"My God, it's Wingate!" the tenant of the room exclaimed. "John Wingate!"
Wingate, who had succeeded in opening the windows, came over and shook hands with the man whom he had come to visit.
"How are you, Andrew?" he said. "What on earth's got you that you choose to live in an atmosphere like this!"
Slate, who had recovered from his surprise, slipped dejectedly back into his place. Wingate had established himself with caution upon the only remaining chair.
"I've had lung trouble over here," Slate explained, "This heavy atmosphere plays the devil with one's breathing. I guess you're right about the windows though. How did you find me out?"
"Telephone directory, aided by my natural intelligence," Wingate replied.
"What are you doing these days?"
"Trying to run straight and finding it filthily difficult," the other answered.
"What do you call yourself, anyway?" Wingate asked. "There's nothing except your name on the board downstairs."
Slate nodded.
"I'm the only one in the building," he said, "who isn't either a theatrical agent or a bookmaker. I've got just a small connection amongst the riffraff as a man who can be trusted to collect the necessary evidence in a divorce case, especially if there's a little collusion, or find a few false witnesses to help a thief with an alibi. Once or twice I have even gone so far as to introduce a receiver to a successful thief."
"Hm!" Wingate observed. "You see all sorts of life."
"I do indeed," Slate admitted. "What do you want with me? I can find you a murderer who's looking for a job, or a burglar who would take anything on where there was a reasonable chance of success, or half a dozen witnesses—a little tarnished, though, I'm afraid they may be—who would swear anything. Or I can find you several beautiful ladies—beautiful, that is to say, with the aid of one of the costumers up the street and a liberal supply of cosmetics—who will inveigle any young man you want dealt with into any sort of situation, provided he is fool enough and the pay is good. I'm an all-round man still, Wingate, but my nose is a little closer to the ground than it was."
Wingate looked thoughtfully at the man whom he had come to visit, studying his appearance in every detail. Then he leaned across and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Andrew," he said, "you and I have looked out at life once or twice and seen the big things. I guess there's no false shame between us. I can say what I want, can't I?"
"I should say so," was the hearty reply. "Get right on with it, John.
I've passed the blushing age."
"It's like this," Wingate explained. "I've got a job for you. You can't do it like that. Walk to the door, will you?"
"Damn it, I know you're going to look at my boots!" Slate declared, as he rose unwillingly and obeyed.
"You've
