"Wipe your eyes, my dear Banks," he said. "I won't hurt you, you poor little thing. Dry your eyes, and come down the rest of the way. I'll stand here, at the head of these stairs, while you toddle into that room. Then I'll lock the door, which is very strong, and get you your cup of tea. Come along! Come along! I haven't the heart to hurt such a white-livered whimperer."
For a moment the big sportsman glared at him, contemplating a mad rush, at the risk of a bullet through his breast—but only for a moment. Something in the old man's leer told him that the finger on the trigger would not hesitate, the muzzle would not waver. To attack now would be suicide. He realized that he was at the mercy of a madman.
"I'm coming. I'll be mightly glad of the tea," he said, with a painful attempt at a smile.
He made his way falteringly to the bottom of the steps, across the hall, and into the room indicated by the old man. All the fight and all the strength had gone out of him—for the time being, at least. The terrible play on the stairs had taken more stamina out of him than a day's march through a tangled wilderness, with a seventy-pound pack on his shoulders. He staggered to the bed, and sat down dizzily on the edge of it. Old Wigmore stood on the threshold, leering.
"I hope you like the room," he said. "I spent most of the night in fixing it up for you."
"Thanks. It looks fine," replied Banks. And it really was fine, he noticed, gazing around with reviving hope. There was a window—a real window—in the wall. He could soon attract attention from that window, or let himself out of it by a rope made of bedclothes. He had read of that dodge a dozen times. The old fellow was mad certainly; but there did not seem to be much method in his madness, after all. Banks turned his face away so as to hide a wan smile.
"Sit where you are, my boy, and I'll bring your tea in a minute," said the old man.
Then he stepped back and closed the door. Banks continued to sit on the bed and gaze around the room, uncertain whether to go to the window now or wait until Wigmore had brought the tea and again retired. He did not want to bungle things by being in too great a hurry. With a little patience and cunning on his part, his mad old jailer would soon be in his power. He decided to wait where he was. The bed was soft, and he was woefully tired. He turned sideways, threw his feet up, and sank head and shoulders back upon the tempting pillows.
With a sharp click, followed by a soft thud, the middle of the bed sank to the floor, and the bulging sides folded inward upon the astonished Mr. Banks. He shouted and struggled; but his head was lower than his heels, and his arms were pinned firmly against his sides. At last he twisted over until he lay on his left shoulder, and his right arm was clear. In another minute he would have been out of the ridiculous trap; but suddenly Captain Wigmore appeared, slipped a rope around the imbedded ankles, and bound them tight; and another around the free arm, and made it fast to the head of the bed. Then the old man stood and leered down at him.
"You are a terrible fellow for smashing furniture," he said. "You have a very violent temper. Out you come! Out you come!"