Part 25 (1/2)

”Where for--and what for?” asked Banks, getting interested.

”He said, in a letter that he was good enough to leave behind him, that he is tired of me and of the backwoods, and can do better for himself in New York. I suppose he has set out for New York. He is a queer fish, you know, is old Timothy Fletcher. He has been with me for years, and has always been more trouble to me than comfort. But he was a handy man and a good cook. I am sorry he took it into his head to go just now. It makes it very awkward for me.”

”Did he take anything with him?” asked the would-be detective.

”Only his own duds--and a little rye whisky.”

”Where was he the afternoon and evening before his departure?”

”Where was he? Let me think. I am sure I can't say, Banks. Why?”

”Oh, I don't know. He seemed to me rather an interesting old codger. His manners were the worst I ever saw. I wonder what struck him to leave you so suddenly.”

Captain Wigmore shrugged his neat shoulders and laughed harshly.

”Perhaps the poor old chap thought he would be suspected and accused of potting our young friend here,” he suggested. ”He is a prowler, you know. He frequently wanders 'round in the woods for hours at a time, and he usually carries firearms of some kind or other.”

Mr. Banks leaned forward in his chair. ”I never heard of Fletcher as a sportsman,” he said. ”But even so, how could he have heard of Reginald's accident? You say he was gone by morning--and it was not until morning that Goodine and I found Reginald. So there can't be anything in that suggestion of yours, captain.”

”Very likely not,” replied Wigmore. ”I am not a detective and have no ambitions that way. All I know is that Timothy went away in a hurry, leaving a letter behind him in which he addressed me in very disrespectful terms.”

”Is that all you know, captain?”

”Not quite, after all. I had a rifle--and it has vanished.”

”Great heavens! You knew all this, and yet you accused Nash of having wounded Reginald!”

”Well, why not? Some one must have done it--and the circ.u.mstances are more against Nash than Fletcher. Nash had a score to settle with Reginald; but I do not think there was any bad blood between our friend and Timothy.”

”But you say Timothy is queer?”

”Oh, yes, he is queer. Always has been. He is mad as a hatter--if you know how mad that is. I don't.”

”What about the marked card?” asked Rayton. ”Don't you think it is potent enough to pull a trigger without the help of either Nash or Fletcher?”

The old man laughed. ”I am getting a bit weary of that card,” he said.

”Whoever is playing that trick is working it to death. And now that I come to think of it, it strikes me that I was the last person to receive those red marks. So why hasn't the curse, or whatever it is, struck me?”

”You were the last,” replied Rayton, ”but it was dealt to me that same evening.”

”Bless my soul! D'you mean to say so?” exclaimed Wigmore. ”That is interesting. It looks as if there is something in Jim's story, after all. Let me see! The marks were handed to Jim's father several times, weren't they? And he came to a sudden and violent death, didn't he? Of course it must be all chance, combined by somebody's idea of a joke--but it looks very strange to me. I don't like it. But why do you get the marks, Reginald? Are you sweet on Miss Harley?”

Rayton laughed--and his laughter was his only answer.

Banks and the captain played chess, and said nothing more about the marked cards or Timothy Fletcher. Captain Wigmore won all the games easily. Then he went home. Banks put the chessmen away, fixed the fires downstairs, and then returned to his seat by Rayton's bed. He sat for a long time in silence, with puckered brows.

”Queer thing about old Fletcher,” said the Englishman.

”I believe you, my son,” answered Mr. Banks. ”It is so darned queer I guess it calls for investigation. Fletcher is an exceedingly rude old man--and his master is an exceedingly _uneven_ old man.”