he words would not come. At
length she said, in a strange voice: "You did not tell me the truth."

"Mercy!"

"Where's Parson Christian?" said Mercy, and her voice grew stern.

"You must not use that tone to me. Come, get away to bed, little one."

Her eyes dropped before his. She turned away. He watched her up the
stairs. So sure of hand was he that not even at that moment did he doubt
his hold of her. But Mercy did not go to bed. She turned in at the open
door of Drayton's room. The room was dark; only a fitful ray of bleared
moonlight fell crosswise on the floor; but she could see that the
unconscious figure of Paul Ritson lay stretched upon the bed.

"And I have led you here with a lie!" she thought. Then her head swam
and fell on to the counterpane. Some minutes passed in silence. She was
aroused by footsteps in the passage outside. They were coming toward
this room. The door, which stood ajar, was pushed open. There was no
time for Mercy to escape, so she crept back into the darkness of a
narrow space between the foot of the bed and the wall.

Two men entered. Mercy realized their presence in the dark room rather
by the sense of touch than by the sense of hearing or sight. They walked
lightly, the darkness hid them, but the air seemed heavy with their hot
breath. One of them approached the bedside; Mercy felt the bed quiver.
The man leaned over it, and there was a pause. Only the scarcely
perceptible breathing of the insensible man fell on the silence.

"He's safe enough still," said a voice that thrilled her through and
through. "Now for it--there's no time to lose!"

The girl crouched down and held her breath.

"Damme if I ain't wishing myself well out of it!" muttered another
voice.

Mercy knew both men. They were Hugh Ritson and Paul Drayton.

Hugh closed the door. "What simpleton says fortune favors the brave?"
he said, in a low, derisive tone. "Here is fortune at the feet of a man
like you!"

Drayton growled, and Mercy heard the oath that came from beneath his
breath. "I'm wanting to be out of this, and I ain't ashamed for you to
know it."

Hugh Ritson's light laugh came from the bedside. He was still standing
by Paul Ritson's head. "If the lord mayor came for you in his carriage,
with a guard of flunkies, you would leave this house in less safety," he
said. Then he added, impatiently: "Come, waste no words; strip off that
tell-tale coat."

With this he leaned over the bed, and there was a cr