Nash had not been gone more than an hour when Captain Wigmore himself appeared.
"I am lonely," said the old man, "and I am getting rather sick of doing my own cooking."
"Thought Fletcher did the cooking," said Mr. Banks.
"So he did; but he has gone away," replied Wigmore. "He cleared out some time or other night before last—the night you were shot, Reginald."
"Where for—and what for?" asked Banks, getting interested.
"He said, in a letter that he was good enough to leave behind him, that he is tired of me and of the backwoods, and can do better for himself in New York. I suppose he has set out for New York. He is a queer fish, you know, is old Timothy Fletcher. He has been with me for years, and has always been more trouble to me than comfort. But he was a handy man and a good cook. I am sorry he took it into his head to go just now. It makes it very awkward for me."
"Did he take anything with him?" asked the would-be detective.
"Only his own duds—and a little rye whisky."
"Where was he the afternoon and evening before his departure?"
"Where was he? Let me think. I am sure I can't say, Banks. Why?"