I must say you're the last person we expected to see here. We imagined
you dashing in a great motor-car from Liverpool to your office in the
City, dictating letters, speaking into the telephone, and doing all
sorts of violent things. I don't believe Mr. Kendrick told us the truth
about you at all."

Wingate smiled good-humouredly.

"Tell me what Kendrick has been saying, and I will let you know whether
it is the truth or not," he promised.

"Well, he has just given us a thrilling picture of you," she went on,
"coming over here armed cap-a-pie to do battle for the romance of money.
Already we were picturing to ourselves poor Dreadnought Phipps, the
first of your victims, seeking for an asylum in the Stock Exchange
Almshouses; and the other desperado--what was his name? Skinflint
Martin?--on his knees before you while you read him a moral lecture on
the evils of speculation."

Wingate's eyes twinkled.

"From all of which I judge that you have been discussing the British and
Imperial Granaries," he remarked.

"Our dear young friend, Miss Baldwin," Kendrick said, "has a vivid
imagination and a wonderful gift of picturesque similies. Still, I
have just been telling them that one reason why I wouldn't touch B. &
I.'s is because they have an idea over here that you are going to have
a shy at them."