"Leave him to me. When the time comes, make no delay. Don't expose yourself unnecessarily. Wear that ulster you have on at present. Say as little as possible--nothing if practicable. Get the lady into the fly that shall be waiting at the door; drive to the station; book her to Keswick; put her into the carriage at the last moment; then clear away with all expedition. The midnight train never stops this side of Bedford." Drayton was shuffling across the room, chuckling audibly. "He, he, he! haw! haw!--so I'm to leave her at the station, eh? Poor young thing; I hain't got the heart--I hain't got it in me to be so cruel. No, no, I couldn't be such a vagabond of a husband--he, he! haw, haw!--and on the poor thing's wedding day, too." Hugh Ritson rose to his feet. "If you go an inch further than the station, you'll repent it to your dying day!" he said, once more bringing down his fist heavily on the table. At this Drayton chuckled and crowed yet louder, and declared that it would be necessary to have another half glass in order to take the taste of the observation out of his mouth. Then his laughter ceased. "Look here: you want me to do a job as can only be done by one man alive. And what do you offer me--twenty pounds? Keep it," he said; "it won't pass, sir!" The fire had burned very low, the cheerless room was dense with smoke and noisome with the smell of dead tobacco. Drayton buttoned up to the throat the long coat he wore. "I've summat on," he said; "good-night." The sound of children's voices came from the bar. The little ones were going home. "Good-night, missy, and thank you." It was a woman's voice. "Good-night, Mercy," cried the children. Drayton was opening the door. "Think again," said Hugh Ritson. "You run no risk. Eleven forty-five prompt will do." CHAPTER IV. When Drayton went out, Hugh Ritson walked into the bar. The gossips had gone. Only the landlady was there. The door to the room opposite now stood open. "Mrs. Drayton," said Hugh, "have you ever seen this face before?" He took a medallion from his pocket and held it out to her. "Lor's a mercy me!" cried the landlady; "why, it's her herself as plain as plain--except for the nun's bonnet." "Is that the lady who lodged with you at Pimlico--the mother of Paul?" "As sure as sure! Lor's, yes; and to think the poor young dear is dead and gone! It's thirty years since, but it do make me cry, and my husband--he's gone, too--my husband he said to me, 'Martha,' he said, 'Martha--'" The landlady's garrulity was interrupted by a light scream: "Hugh, Hugh!" Mercy Fisher stood in the door-way, with wonder-stricken eyes and heaving breast. In an instant the poor little soul had rushed into Hugh Ritson's arms with the flutter of a frightened bird. "Oh, I knew you would come--I was sure you would come!" she said, and dried her eyes, and then cried again, and then dried them afresh, and lifted her pouting lips to be kissed.