"Right you are. That is the sitting-room window. The curtains are not drawn tight. Let's look in and see who's there," said Banks.
Banks took the first look.
"Reginald and Nash," he whispered. "And the girl—yes, and Jim and Dick. And who's that sitting with his back to the window?"
Old Fletcher edged himself into the place of vantage.
"It's him!" he whispered. "It's that snake!"
"Quiet!" cautioned the other. "Look! He's on his feet. He's wiping his eyes. There's been trouble. They have hurt his feelings, the poor, dear old saint!"
Old Timothy Fletcher trembled like a wet dog.
"I'll saint 'im!" he hissed. "Come on! Come on!"
They left the window, opened the back door noiselessly, crossed the kitchen on tiptoes, and threw open the door of the sitting room. Fletcher pushed past Banks, and darted up to within a foot of Captain Wigmore.
"You lyin', murderin', stinkin' old lunatic!" he screamed. "You thought you'd leave me to starve, did you? It's back to the mad-house for you—damn you!"