Every one in the room was standing, staring breathlessly. For a moment Wigmore gaped at his old servant, his mouth open, his eyes like stones. Then, with a choking cry, he reeled aside. Mr. Banks gripped him by the shoulder, and shook him furiously.
"You devil!" he roared. "You smirking hypocrite! You've come to the end of your deviltries!"
Wigmore made a dash for the door. Timothy Fletcher sprang in front of him, and was hurled to the floor. Then Mr. Banks jumped after Wigmore, caught the back of his coat, and at the same moment tripped over the prostrate Timothy and crashed to earth. The little room was now in tumult and confusion. Nell Harley crouched in a corner. Rayton stood guard in front of her, his sound arm extended. Jim Harley sat upon the shoulders of the big New Yorker, crying: "No murder here! No murder here! What d'ye mean by it?"
Timothy, lying flat, clung to Wigmore's right leg.
"Stop him!" he yelled. "Stop him! He's mad—a ravin' lunatic!"
Wigmore kicked his old servant in the face, and wrenched himself clear. In another second he would have been out of the room and away—but just then Dick Goodine and Doctor Nash closed with the terrible old man, crushed him to the floor, and held him there. They had their hands full, but they continued to hold him down.
There came a brief lull in the terrific tumult—but the excitement was not yet over. Mr. Harvey P. Banks was indignant. A madman had tried to starve him to death, and now a presumably sane man sat upon his back and called him a murderer. All his natural blandness was burned out—scorched to a flake of ash. The passions of fur-clad, pit-dwelling ancestors flamed within him. He arose furiously, twisted around, and flung Jim Harley aside. He gripped him by the breast with his left hand, by the right wrist with his right. He was quick as a lizard and strong as a lion. The lumberman was like a child in his hands.
"You fool!" he cried, glaring. "What d'you mean by it? So you are on Wigmore's side, are you?—on the side of the man who tried to murder his servant and me—yes, and who marked and dealt those cursed cards! You'd sit on my back, would you? For two pins I'd pick you up and heave you against the wall. Tell me—were you in league with this old devil? Tell me quick—or I'll finish you! Did you know Wigmore was marking those cards?"
"The cards!" cried poor Jim. "No, no! On my soul, I didn't know it! So help me God, I thought it was the family curse!"
"You fool!" exclaimed Banks, loosening his grip and turning away. His rage had also fallen to ashes, leaving his big face drawn and gray, and his great limbs trembling. His eyes were dim.