"And your address?" "I was on my way to Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square. What place is this?" "Hendon." "Could one get accommodation here for the night? A lady is with me." "Best go up by the twelve-thirty, sir." "The lady is too much worn and excited. Any hotel, inn, lodging-house?" A porter came up. "The Hawk and Heron's handiest. A mile, sir. Drayton--it's him as keeps it--he's here somewhere. Drayton!" (calling). "Can you get me a fly, my good fellow?" "Yes, sir." The police sergeant moved off. "Then I may look for you at the Hawk and Heron?" he said. Hugh Ritson heard all. He kept the lantern down. In the darkness not a face of that group was seen of any man. A quarter of an hour later, Hugh Ritson, panting for breath, was knocking at the door of the inn. The landlady within fumbled with the iron bar behind it. "Come, quick!" said Hugh. The door opened, and he stepped in sharply, bathed in perspiration. "Is your son back?" he said, catching his breath. "Back, sir? No, sir; it's a mercy if he gets home afore morning, sir; 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."