Mr. Banks got to his feet, and found the position of the door. He moved slowly. He laughed softly.
"Stand out of the way—out of the danger zone," he cautioned. "I'm going to kick. I can kick like an army mule."
"Kick! Kick!" croaked Timothy Fletcher, crouching off to one side. "There's drink downstairs. Food an' drink."
Banks balanced himself, lifted his right knee high against his waistcoat, and shot forward his right heel. With a rending of wood and ripping of dislodged screws, the door flew open, letting a flood of faint moonlight into the black closet. Banks staggered forward, fell flat on the floor outside, then nipped to his feet again as nimble as a cat. Weariness and sickness were forgotten. He felt superior to anything old Wigmore might try to do.
Fletcher staggered up, and reeled against the New Yorker.
"He'll shoot—if he's home," he gabbled. "Get hold of a chair—to let fly at him. Kill him if you see him! He's mad! Kill him like a rat!"
"You bet," replied Banks. "If I see him—then God pity him! Ah!"
He saw a heavy chair standing by the moonlit window. He ran forward, seized it by the back, and lifted it. He whirled it around his head. He felt strong enough to annihilate a score of maniacs.
"This will do. Come on," he whispered.
They went down a flight of heavily carpeted stairs to the lower hall. The winter moonshine lit the place faintly. Banks went ahead, with the big chair ready in front of him, and poor old Timothy crawling at his heels. The house was quiet as death. They reached the hall. Banks' anxious eye caught sight of the shadow of a curtain at the door of the dining room. The big chair hurtled through the air, and burst against the casing of the door.