At that moment, Guest uttered an eager cry, and thrust his hand into his pocket.
“I’d forgotten that,” he said, in answer to Miss Jerrold’s inquiring look; “and I don’t know now that it will fit.”
He had taken out his latchkey on the chance of that which fitted the lock of one set of chambers fitting that of another, and, thrusting it into the keyhole, he was in the act of turning it when, as if someone had been listening to every word and act, a bolt was suddenly shot back, and the door thrown open against Guest’s chest. He started back in astonishment, for there, in the dark opening, stood Malcolm Stratton, his face of a sickly sallow, a strange look in his eyes, and a general aspect of his having suddenly turned ten years older, startling all present.
“What do you want?” he said harshly.
The question was so sudden that Guest was stunned into muteness, but the admiral stepped forward fiercely.
“You—you despicable scoundrel!” he roared; and as Stratton stepped back the old man followed him quickly into the room, and caught him by the throat.
“Mark! Mark!” cried Miss Jerrold, following to seize her brother’s arm, while Guest, relieved beyond measure at finding his friend in the flesh, instead of his murderer, hurriedly entered and closed the outer door.
“Stand aside, woman!” cried the admiral, fiercely wresting himself free in ungovernable rage on seeing the man who had caused the morning’s trouble standing there unharmed. The fact of Stratton being uninjured and making so insulting a demand half maddened him, and, seizing his collar, he was bearing him back, when Guest interposed, and separated them.
“This will do no good, Sir Mark,” he cried. “For everybody’s sake, sir, be calm.”
“Calm!” roared the old sailor furiously.