itchen with a settled conviction that
somewhere in that mysterious chamber his master kept a capacious
cupboard for strong drink.

Like master, like man: Natt brewed himself an ample pint of hot ale,
pulled off his great boots, and drew up to warm himself before the
remains of a huge fire.

Hugh Ritson's bedroom opened off his sitting-room. He went to bed; he
tried to sleep, but no sleep came near him; he tossed about for an hour,
rose, walked the room again, then went to bed once more.

He was feeling the first pangs of honest remorse. A worse man would have
accommodated himself more speedily to the altered conditions when he
found that he had pursued a phantasm. To do this erring man justice, he
writhed under it. A better man would have fled from it. If, at the
outset, if when the first step in the descent had been taken, he had
seen clearly that villainy lay that way, he would not have gone
further. But now he had gone too far. To go on were as easy as to go
back; and go on he must.

While he honestly believed that Greta was half-sister to the man known
to the world as Paul Ritson and his brother, he could have stood aside
and witnessed without flinching the ceremony that was to hold them
forever together and apart. Then without remorse he could have come down
and separated them, and seen that woman die of heart's hunger who had
starved to death the great love he bore her. There would have been a
stern retribution in that, and the voice of nature would have whispered
him that he did well.

But when it was no longer possible to believe that Greta and Paul were
anything to each other, the power of sophistry collapsed, and
retribution sunk to revenge.

He might go on, but there could be no self-deception. The blind
earthworms of malice might delude themselves if they liked, but he could
see, and he must face the truth. If ever he did what he had proposed to
do, then he was a scoundrel, and a conscious scoundrel!

Hugh Ritson leaped out of his bed. The perspiration rolled in big beads
from his forehead. His tongue grew thick and stiff in his mouth. The
great veins in his neck swelled.

Without knowing whither he went, he walked out of his own into his
mother's room. A candle still burned on the table. The fire had
smoldered out. A servant-maid sat by the bedside with head aslant,
sleeping the innocent sleep. He approached the bed. His mother was
breathing softly. She had fallen into a doze; the pale face was ve