“Yes, sir, a’most,” cried Jerry, whose appearance and action justified the colonel’s question, for he had suddenly seized the old officer’s arm and made a snatch at the note.
“Stand back, sir! Leave the room at once! Here, turn this scoundrel out.”
“Keep off, or I’ll do you a mischief,” roared Jerry, as two of the men sprang at him, and they shrank from his menacing gesture. “Here, Mr Lacey, Colonel, I want to know—I will know—if S’Richard’s hurt—”
“Sir Richard! The man’s drunk,” cried the colonel.
“No, I ain’t; but it’s enough to make me,” roared Jerry. “I am drunk now with what you gents call indignation. If S’Richard’s hurt, it’s foul play, and it’s that black-hearted, cheating, gambling hound as done it. Keep back!—d’yer hear? It’s all over now. It’s the cat out of the bag, and no mistake!”
“One moment, colonel,” cried Lacey firmly. “Brigley never drinks.—Look here, my man, you said foul play. Do you know who was likely to injure Smithson?”
“Smithson!” cried Jerry in contemptuous tones. “I don’t care; I will speak now. Smithson—do I know? Yes, sir, I do; and I ought to have spoke before, when he was missing first.”
“Then speak out,” said Lacey, and the angry frown upon the colonel’s face began to change to a look of interest. “Who is the scoundrel that had a grudge against Smithson?”
“Tell you he ain’t no Smithson!” roared Jerry, bringing his fist down upon the table and making the glasses jump and one fall to the floor with a crash. “He made me swear I wouldn’t speak; but I will now. He’s no Smithson. He’s Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, and the man as hurt him is his black-hearted cousin Mark, as calls himself ‘Sir.’ Him of the 310th.”
“Stop, my man,” cried the colonel. “This is a terribly serious charge to make against an officer and a gentleman.”