large in the minds of the little army of clerks. Telephones were handled
longingly. Those of the firm who were members of the Stock Exchange
abandoned any work of a distracting nature and held themselves ready for
a prompt rush across the street.

Even Roger Kendrick, as he shook hands with his client, was conscious of
a little thrill of expectation. Wingate was a man who brought with him
almost a conscious sense of power. Carefully, but not overcarefully
dressed, muscular, with a frame like steel, eyes keen and bright,
carrying himself like a man who knows himself and his value, John Wingate
would have appeared a formidable adversary in any game in which he chose
to take a hand. Whatever his present intentions were, however, he seemed
in no hurry to declare himself. The two men spoke for a few minutes on
outside subjects. Wingate referred to the garden party of the afternoon
before, led the conversation with some skill around to the subject of
Josephine Dredlinton, and listened to what the other man had to say.

"Every one is sorry for Lady Dredlinton," Kendrick pronounced. "Why she
married Dredlinton is one of the mysteries of the world. I suppose it was
the fatal mistake so many good women make--the reformer's passion.
Dredlinton's rotten to the core, though. No one could reform him, could
even influence him to good to any extent. He's such a wrong 'un, to tell
you the truth, that I'm surprised Phipps put him on the Board. His name
is long past doing any one any good."

"Lady Dredlinton did not strike me as having altogether the air of an
unhappy woman," Wingate observed tentatively.

Kendrick shrugged his shoulders.