Mr. Banks and Timothy Fletcher stood in Captain Wigmore's hall, breathing quietly and straining eyes and ears. All was silent. All seemed safe. Banks opened the door. The little porch was empty. He stepped across the threshold, followed closely by the staggering Fletcher. They pushed open the door of the porch, and stumbled out of that horrible house, into the frosty moonshine, onto the crisp snow. No lurking danger confronted them. They were free.

"Thank God!" cried Harvey P. Banks, hysterically.

The air was bitterly cold, and the two fugitives were without overcoats. They were so overjoyed to find themselves free men again, however, that they felt no discomfort from the gnawing of the frozen air. The little servant clung to the big sportsman; and so they moved down the narrow path and through the gate onto the highway.

"He's played his last dirty trick on me—or any one else," mumbled Fletcher. "I've stood 'im too long—too long! Now, he'll go back where he come from—the grinnin' snake!"

He leaned heavily on Banks' arm and laughed shrilly.

"Which way?" asked Banks.

"Don't care," replied Fletcher.

"We'll head straight for Rayton's, then," said Banks. "It seems a month since I've seen Reginald. Then we'll smoke a cigar. Then we'll hunt up our friend—and put the boots to him."

The cold, clean air strengthened them, and they were soon stepping out at quite a respectable pace. They even crawled over fences and took short cuts across snow-drifted meadows and pastures. They did not meet or see a human being, for by this time the searchers were all miles away from the settlement. They rested for a minute against Rayton's front gate, then went quickly up the long, twisting road toward the low house and glowing windows.

"There's company," said Timothy. "Maybe they're havin' another game o' poker." He grinned at Banks. "Oh, you're easy! A baby could fool the lot o' you," he added.

"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!"

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.

"That snake poisons the air," he muttered.

He stepped across to where Goodine and Nash held down the squirming captain.

"Let him get up. He has a good many things to explain to us," he said quietly.

Just then poor old Fletcher raised his head, showing a cut and bleeding mouth. Banks lifted him in his arms, and laid him on the couch.

"Don't stand there like a wooden image!" he said to Jim Harley. "Your inactivity has done quite enough harm already. This old man has been gagged, bound, and starved for days. Get him some brandy."

As Nash and Goodine removed their knees and hands from Captain Wigmore, that old sinner began to laugh immoderately. Still laughing, he got nimbly to his feet, bowed to right and left, and sat down in an armchair.

"Mad as a dog," mumbled Fletcher, with his bleeding lips. "He never was rightly cured, anyhow!"

"Mad?" queried the captain. "If you mean insane, my good fellow, you are very much mistaken. That's right, Jim. Give him a drink—but first wipe the blood off his lips. Don't spoil the flavor of good whisky with bad blood."

"If you are not insane," said Banks, "then you are utterly evil—a thing to crush out like a poisonous snake. But to look you in the eyes is to read the proof of your insanity."

Wigmore frowned. "Banks," he said, "you are feeble. You have the mind and outlook upon life of a boy of ten—of a backward boy of ten. But even so, I believe you have more intelligence than our friends here. However that may be, you managed to blunder across the right trail at last. That's why I took you in hand."

"You seem to forget that I have escaped you," said Banks.

Wigmore nodded. "I made the mistake of underestimating your bodily strength," he admitted. "I don't understand even now, how you managed to get out of that closet. You couldn't kick down the door—even with those boots."

"Never mind about that!" exclaimed Jim Harley, white with excitement. "Tell me about the cards! What do you know about the cards?"

The old man gazed at him for a second or two with a face of derisive inquiry, and then burst again into furious laughter.

"Absolutely cracked," said Doctor Nash. "Absolutely, utterly, hopelessly off his chump!"

Wigmore ceased his wild laughter so suddenly that every one was startled.

"Jim," he said, with a bland leer, "you are so simple and unsuspecting that I hate to tell you the truth. But I have to do it, Jim, just to prove to Banks and the rest that I am not insane. Jim, my boy, I am the chosen instrument of Fate."

A brief, puzzled silence followed, which was broken by the croaking voice of old Timothy Fletcher.

"Forget it!" snarled Timothy. "D'you mind the time you was the Sultan of Turkey?"

Wigmore smiled at his servant, then glanced around the room, and tapped his forehead suggestively with a finger.

"Instrument of Fate? Sultan of Turkey?" queried Banks.

Jim Harley leaned forward, clutched the old man's shoulder, and shook it violently.

"What do you know about those cards?" he cried. "Tell me that—quick!"

"You seem to be in a terrible hurry, all of a sudden," replied the captain. "Oh, well, it does not matter; but if you really knew just who I am—if you fully realized who I am—you'd treat me with more consideration. I am the chosen husband of your sister. I am her destiny."

"Who are you?" asked Harley, scarcely above a whisper.

"I am the instrument of the Fate that haunts the steps of your mother's daughter," replied Wigmore. "I am the chosen instrument. I deal the cards—and the blow falls. I do not have to soil my hands—to strike the blows. I mark the cards, and deal them—and Fate does the rest, through such tools as come to her hand."

He leered at Dick Goodine.

"Then you admit that you marked and dealt the cards!" cried Harley.

"Certainly, my dear boy. It was my duty to do so—just as it was my duty to quiet Banks when he came blundering into my affairs. I am the keeper of the curse—the instrument of Fate—the—the——"

He pressed both hands to his forehead, and sighed.

"The star boarder at the Fairville Insane Asylum," snarled Timothy Fletcher, "an' may the devil catch that fool doctor who said you was cured!" he added.

Wigmore lifted his face.

"I am John Edward Jackson," he said pleasantly, as if introducing himself to strangers, "Captain Jackson—the exile."

"Jackson!" cried Jim Harley. "Jackson? What do you mean? Not the Jackson?"

The old man nodded. "That's right, Jim. That's why I marked the cards. I came here on purpose to look after Nell, you know. It was my duty."

"He is mad," said Banks. "He is not responsible for what he says or does. He must be taken back to Fairville."

"Yes, I am Captain Jackson," continued old Wigmore. "I had to go away from my home, so I took to seafaring for a while. What was the trouble? Sometimes I remember and sometimes I forget. I got hold of a mine and made money. Then I made a voyage back to my own country, on very important business."

"That's one of the stories he used to tell me when I was his keeper in the lunatic asylum," said Timothy Fletcher. "Sometimes he was Jackson an' sometimes he was the Grand Turk."

"You keep your mouth shut till you are spoken to," screamed Wigmore, in sudden fury.

Harley stooped and gazed anxiously at the old man.

"Did you murder my father?" he asked, his voice shaking.

For a second the other stared at him blankly.

"Certainly not!" he cried indignantly. "All I have to do is place the card! I engaged an old sailor, or something of the kind, to dispatch your father. I indicate. Fate destroys."

Then he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.