“Yes. We’re here, but you didn’t say what you wanted of us,” spoke the one addressed as Whalen.
“You’ll know soon enough,” was the rejoinder. “We sha’n’t want anything—at least not for a while,” Mr. Skeel went on to the landlord, who had followed him into the room. “You can leave us alone. We’ll ring when we want you. And close the door when you go out,” he added, significantly.
The landlord grunted.
“Well, now, what’s the game?” asked Whalen, when Mr. Skeel had seated himself at the table.
“Revenge! That’s the game!” was the fierce answer, and a fist was banged down on the table. “I want revenge, and I’m going to have it!”
“Who’s the party?” demanded Murker.
“Someone you don’t know, but whom you may soon. Tom Fairfield! I owe him a long score, but I’m going to begin to pay it now. I want you to help me, Whalen.”
“Oh, I’ll help you quick enough,” was the ready answer.
“He was instrumental in having you discharged from Elmwood Hall, wasn’t he?” went on the former instructor.
“That’s what he was.”