Banks and Harley staggered like drunken men within a foot of the old man's chair. Harley was blind with rage. Every drop of blood, every muscle, leapt to be at the slayer of his father. Nell, who had fled from the room a moment before, now returned and ran to her brother, crying out to him to be reasonable. Rayton followed the stumbling and reeling of the wrestlers, too weak to assist Banks but plucking constantly at a coat or shoulder. This time Harley was no child in the big sportsman's arms. He fought like a mad man, possessed and a-fire with the determination to destroy his father's murderer.
"It is a devil!" he cried. "Let me at him, I say," and twice he tripped Banks and had him down with one knee on the floor. But he could not get clear of the big fellow, nor overthrow him. And still Captain Wigmore sat in the chair and laughed as if he should die of unholy mirth.
The superior weight of Mr. Banks told at last. He crushed Jim Harley to the carpet and held him there, staring down at him with a flushed, moist face. Harley glared up at him, still squirming and wriggling.
"Lie still," said Banks, breathlessly. "Do you want to add another murder to the list of tragedies?"
"That's what I want to do," gasped Jim. "But it wouldn't be murder to clean the face of the earth of that devil. Let me up, you big slob."
"You'll thank me for this, some day," replied Mr. Banks, sitting firmly and heavily upon Jim Harley's heaving chest. By this time, Nell Harley had subsided into Reginald's anxious and ready arms.
Captain Wigmore stopped laughing suddenly and glanced from Banks and Jim on the floor to the girl and her lover.
"It's as good as a play," he said. "Banks, all this unseemly and ungentlemanly struggle is thrown away. My young friend Jim was powerless to do me any injury. I am beloved of the gods. I am the chosen instrument of fate—of the fate of the Harley family. Reginald, you silly young ass, I see you hold that lady in your arms with no other feeling than that of pity for yourself. The fates have ordained that I am to be her husband. Timothy, you glowering old fool, bring me a drink of whisky. Don't stand there, sir! Step lively when I speak to you, or I'll send for the bosun to put you in irons."
"Forget it," snarled Timothy Fletcher. "You'll never set yer lips to another taste of whisky in this world, you old reprobate. I see death in yer eyes now—an' already the flare of hell fire. It's a drink of water ye'll be hollerin' for pretty soon."
"Let me up," said Jim Harley. "I promise you I won't touch him."