he's noways--"

"Stop your clatter. The girl is in her room. Go and turn the key on
her!"

It was at that moment that Mercy, having stood an instant at the bottom
of the stairs, had ventured nervously into the bar. Turning about, Hugh
Ritson came face to face with her. At the sight of her his crimsoning
cheeks became white with wrath.

"Didn't I tell you to be in bed?" he muttered, in a low, hoarse whisper.

"I've only come for ... I came down for ... Hugh, don't be angry with
me."

"Come, get back, then; don't stand there. Quick--and mind you lock your
door."

"Yes, I'm going. You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?"

"Well, no, perhaps not; only get off--and quick! Do you hear? Why don't
you go?"

"I only came down for ... I only came...."

"God! what foolery is this? The girl's fainting. Never mind. Here,
landlady, bring a light! Lead the way. She's not too heavy to carry.
Upstairs with you. What a snail you are, old woman! Which room?"

Another knock at the outer door. Another and another in rapid
succession.

"I'm a-coming, I'm a-coming!" cried the landlady from the floor above.

She bustled down the stairs as fast as her stiff joints would let her,
but the knock came again.

"Mercy me, mercy me! and whoever is it?"

"Damme, move your bones, and let me in!"

The door flew open with pressure from without. Ghastly white, yet
dripping with perspiration, his breath coming in short, thick gusts, his
neck bare, his shirt-collar torn aside, the lappel of the frieze ulster
gone, and the rent of the red flannel lining exposed, Paul Drayton
entered. He was sober now.

"Where is he?" with an oath.

"I'm here," said Hugh Ritson, walking through the bar and into the
bar-room to the right, and candle in hand.

Drayton followed him, trying to laugh.

"Am I in time?"

"Of course you are," with a hard smile.

"Fearing I might be late."

"Of course you were."

"Ran all the way."

"Of course you did."

"What are you sniggering and mocking at?" with another oath.

Hugh Ritson dropped his banter, and pointed without a word to the torn
ulster and the disordered shirt-collar. Drayton glanced down at his
dress in the light of the candle.

"Crossed the fields for shortness, and caught in a bramble-bush," he
said, muttering.

"Drop it," said Hugh. "There's no time for it. Look here, Drayton, I'm a
downright man. Don't try it on with me. As you say, it won't pass. Shall
I tell you where the collar of