At that instant there came from the dark road the sound of carriage-wheels approaching. Hugh Ritson thrust the landlady out of the room, slammed the door to, and locked it. "What's that?" said Drayton, in a husky whisper. "Who do they want? You've not rounded on a fellow, eh?" "It's the carriage that is to take you and the lady to Kentish Town," said Hugh. "Hush! Listen!" The driver rapped at the door with the end of his whip, and shouted from his seat: "Heigho, heigho--ready for Kentish Town? Eleven o'clock struck this half hour!" Then he could be heard beating his crossed arms under his armpits to warm his hands. "The fool!" muttered Hugh, "can't he keep his tongue in his mouth?" "Quite right," shouted Mrs. Drayton, in a shrill voice, putting her face to the window-pane. "Belike it's for the gentleman," she explained to herself, and then, with candle in hand, she began to mount the stairs. The door of the room to the left opened, and Paul Ritson came out. His great strength seemed to be gone--he reeled like a drunken man. "Landlady," he said, "when does your last train go up to London?" "At half past twelve," said Mrs. Drayton, from two steps up the stairs. "Can I get a fly, my good woman, at this hour of the night?" "The fly's at the door, sir--just come, sir." Paul went back into the room where he had left his wife. The two men in the dark room opposite listened intently. "Be quiet," whispered Hugh Ritson. "I knew he must think better of it. He is going. Keep still. Five minutes more, and you start away with the lady for Kentish Town. He shall walk to the station with me. The instant we leave the house, you go to the lady and say, 'I have changed my mind, Greta. We must go together. Come.' Not a word more; hurry her into the fly, and away." "Easier said nor done, say I." CHAPTER VIII. Alone with Greta, Paul kissed her fervently, and his head fell on her shoulder. The strong man was as feeble as a child now. He was prostrate. "The black lie is like poison in my veins!" he said. "What is it?" said Greta, and she tried to soothe him. "A lie more foul than man ever uttered before--more cruel, more monstrous." "What is it, dearest?" said Greta again, with her piteous, imploring face close to his. "I know it's a lie. My heart tells me it is a lie. The very stones cry out that it is a lie!" "Tell me what it is," said Greta, and she embraced him tenderly. But even while he was struggling with the poison of one horrible word, it was mastering him. He put his wife from him with a strong shudder, as if her proximity stung him. Her bosom heaved. She looked appealingly into his face. "If it is false," she said, "whatever it is, why need it trouble you?" "That is true, my darling," he said, gulping down his fear and taking Greta in his arms, and trying to laugh lightly. "Why, indeed? Why need it trouble me?"