The source of the strange noise was not far to seek, for, as they reached the landing, they became aware that a fierce struggle was going on in the direction of the room occupied by the late Colonel, and hurrying there, it was to find two men locked together, one of whom was succeeding in holding the other down, and wresting his neck from the sinewy hands which had torn off his white cravat.
“Why, Charles! Ramo!” exclaimed Mr Girtle, in the midst of the hoarse, panting sounds uttered by the contending men.
“He’s mad!” cried the former, in a high-pitched tone, in which a man’s rage was mingled with a schoolboy’s whimpering fear. “He’s mad, sir. He tried to strangle me.”
“Thief! dog!” panted the old Hindoo, with his dark features convulsed with passion. “Wanted—rob—his master!”
The two young men had separated the combatants, who now stood up, the footman, his vest and shirt torn open, and his coat dragged half off—the old man with one sleeve of his dark silk robe gone, and the back rent to the waist, while there was a fierce, vindictive look in his working features, as he had to be held to keep him from closing with the footman again.
“What does this mean, Charles?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler and the other servants came hurrying up, while the three Italians also stood upon the landing, looking wonderingly on.
“If you please, sir, I don’t know,” said the footman, in an ill-used tone. “I was just going by the Colonel’s door, and I thought, as was very natural, that I should like to see what these gentlemen had done, when Mr Ramo sprang at me like a wild cat.”
“No, no!” cried the old Indian, whose English in his rage and excitement was less distinct, “a thief—come to rob—my dear lord—a thief!”
“I hope, sir,” said the footman, growing calmer and looking in an injured way at Mr Girtle, “you know me better than that, sir. Mr Preenham here will tell you I’ve cleaned the plate regular all the ten years I’ve been here.”
The old solicitor turned to the butler.