"Half-past nine," he said. "Do you get that? When does Wigmore usually come home?"
"When do he come home?" repeated Timothy. "Blast him! Just when you don't expect him! That's when he comes home. After nine, you say? Then he must be out for the evening. We'd better go—soon. Let's have another drop of that whisky first."
"No more whisky for you. How are the cramps?"
"Bad! Bad! The soda crackers lay on my insides like bits of flint. I was near gone, Mr. Banks. He left me days and days without bite nor sup—may hell's flames scorch him!"
"But we must get away! He may be back at any moment. Once outside the house, we're safe."
"He has that pistol in his pocket. We'd soon be back again, if he met us."
"Rot!" exclaimed Banks. "Come along! Buck up!"
"Can't do it, sir. Not just now—anyhow. I feel that bad—I'd like to die."
The New Yorker relented, knelt beside him, and let him drink a little more of the whisky.
"Now, lie quiet until you feel better," he said. "I'll keep a watch out for Wigmore—and if I see him coming, I'll meet him at the door—with a chair. But you let me know as soon as you feel fit to move."