Drayton buttoned his coat as near to the throat as the torn lapel would allow. "That's what I mean to do. I ain't going to be lagged. It's a lifer this time, and that would take the stiff'ning out of a man." "Where are you going?" "No criss-crossing, I say." "Leave this house, and they'll have you in twenty-four hours." "Stay here, and they'll lag me in twelve. Being as that's twelve to the good, I'm off." Drayton's hand was on the door-handle. Hugh Ritson snatched it away. "An idiot like you deserves to be taken. Such men ought to be put away." Drayton lifted his fist. "Damme, but I'll put you away if--if--" Hugh Ritson did not flinch. "What if I show you how to escape the consequences of to-night's work altogether?" Drayton's uplifted hand fell. "I ain't objecting to that," he growled. "How?" "By putting another man in your place." Drayton's eyes opened in a stare of blank amazement. "And what about me?" he asked. "You," said Hugh Ritson, and a scarcely perceptible sneer curled his lip--"you shall stand in his shoes." A repulsive smile crossed Drayton's face. He fumbled the torn lapel with restless fingers. His eyes wandered to the door. There was a moment's silence. "Him?" he said, with an elevation of the eyebrows. Hugh Ritson bent his head slightly. Drayton stood with mouth agape. Old Mrs. Drayton was pottering around the bar preparatory to going to bed. "I'll be a-bidding you good-night, sir. Paul, you'll lock up after the gentleman." "Good-night, Mrs. Drayton." The landlady hobbled away. But from midway up the stairs her querulous voice came again. "The poor young thing--I declare she's a-crying her eyes out." "Why d'ye mean to do?" asked Drayton. "To get him here." "How'll ye track him? He's gone to London, ain't he? That's a big haystack to find a needle in, ain't it?" "London is not a haystack, Mr. Drayton. It's a honey-comb, and every cell is labeled. On getting out of the train at St. Pancras Station they will either hire a cab or they will not. If they hire one, then the number will be taken at the lodge. By that number the cabman can be found. He will know where he drove his fare. If my brother left his wife at one place, and settled himself at another, the cabman will know that also. If they do not hire a cab, then, as the hour is late, and one of them is a lady, they must be somewhere in the vicinity of the station. Thus, in that vast honey-comb, their particular cells are already marked out for us. That's enough for the present. Who sleep in this house beside yourselves--and the girl?" "Nobody but a lad--a pot-boy." "Where is he now--in bed?" "Four hours agone." "Where does he sleep?" "Up in the attic." "Don't let that lad see you. On which side of the house does the attic lie?" "In the gable, this end." "Is there an attic in the other gable?" "Yes, a bad one."