"Oh, yes, he is queer. Always has been. He is mad as a hatter—if you know how mad that is. I don't."
"What about the marked card?" asked Rayton. "Don't you think it is potent enough to pull a trigger without the help of either Nash or Fletcher?"
The old man laughed. "I am getting a bit weary of that card," he said. "Whoever is playing that trick is working it to death. And now that I come to think of it, it strikes me that I was the last person to receive those red marks. So why hasn't the curse, or whatever it is, struck me?"
"You were the last," replied Rayton, "but it was dealt to me that same evening."
"Bless my soul! D'you mean to say so?" exclaimed Wigmore. "That is interesting. It looks as if there is something in Jim's story, after all. Let me see! The marks were handed to Jim's father several times, weren't they? And he came to a sudden and violent death, didn't he? Of course it must be all chance, combined by somebody's idea of a joke—but it looks very strange to me. I don't like it. But why do you get the marks, Reginald? Are you sweet on Miss Harley?"
Rayton laughed—and his laughter was his only answer.
Banks and the captain played chess, and said nothing more about the marked cards or Timothy Fletcher. Captain Wigmore won all the games easily. Then he went home. Banks put the chessmen away, fixed the fires downstairs, and then returned to his seat by Rayton's bed. He sat for a long time in silence, with puckered brows.
"Queer thing about old Fletcher," said the Englishman.
"I believe you, my son," answered Mr. Banks. "It is so darned queer I guess it calls for investigation. Fletcher is an exceedingly rude old man—and his master is an exceedingly uneven old man."
"Yes. I don't understand either of them," admitted Rayton.