Mr. Banks halted and gazed at him, noting the narrow, heaving chest and gray face.
"I hope I have not hurt you. I opened the door a trifle more violently than I intended," he said.
Fletcher did not answer. Banks glanced up the stairs and beheld Captain Wigmore standing at the top and smiling down at him. He turned sharply to the servant. "There!" he whispered. "Just as I suspected! You were lying."
The old fellow twisted his gray face savagely. That was his only answer.
Timothy retired to the back of the house as Captain Wigmore descended the stairs. The captain was in fine spirits. He clasped his visitor's hand and patted his shoulder.
"Come into my den," he cried. "What'll you have? Tea, whisky, sherry? Give it a name, my boy."
"A drop of Scotch, if you have it handy," replied the caller. "But I came over just for a moment, captain, to see if you can join us to-night in a little game of poker."
"Delighted! Nothing I'd like better. We've been dull as ditch water lately," answered the captain, as he placed a glass and decanter before his visitor. "Just a moment," he added. "There is no water—and there is no bell in this room. Timothy has a strong objection to bells."
Wigmore left the room, returning in a minute with a jug of water. He closed the door behind him.
"Same crowd, I suppose," he said, "and the cards cut at eight o'clock."