Drayton stepped to the bottom of the bed and fumbled at the feet of the insensible man. He was then within a yard of the spot where the girl stood. She could feel his proximity, and the alcoholic fumes of his breath rose to her nostrils. She was dizzy, and thought she must have fallen. She stretched out one hand to save herself, and it fell on to the bed-rail. It was within a foot of Drayton's arm. "Take off his stockings--they're homespun--while I remove the cravat. The pin was a present; it has his name engraved on the plate behind." The slant of the moonlight had died off the floor, and all was dark. Drayton's craven fears seemed to leave him. He laughed and crowed. "How quiet the fence is--very obliging, I'm sure--just fainted in the nick of time. Will it last?" "Quick! strip off your own clothes and put them where these have come from. The coat with the torn lapel--where is it? Make no mistake about that." "I'll pound it, no!" Drayton laughed a short, hoarse laugh. There was some shuffling in the darkness. Then a pause. "Hush!" Mercy knew that Hugh Ritson had grasped the arm of Drayton, and that both held their breath. At that moment the moonlight returned, and the bleared shaft that had once crossed the floor now crossed the bed. The light fell on the face of the prostrate man. His eyes were open. "Water--water!" said Paul Ritson, very feebly. Hugh Ritson stepped out of the moonlight and went behind his brother. Then Mercy saw a hand before Paul's face, putting a spirit flask to his mouth. When the hand was raised the face twitched slightly, the eyes closed with a convulsive tremor, and the half-lifted head fell back on to the pillow. "He'll be quieter than ever now," said Hugh Ritson, softly. Mercy thought she must have screamed, but the instinct of self-preservation kept her still. She stirred not a limb. Her head rested against the wall, her eyes peered into the darkness, her parched tongue and parted lips burned like fire. "Quick! put his clothes on to your own back, and let us be gone." Drayton drew on the garments and laughed hoarsely. "And a good fit, too--same make of a man to a T--ex--act--ly!" The window and the door stood face to face; the bed was on the left of the door, with the head at the door-end. The narrow alcove in which the girl stood was to the left of the window, and in front of the window there was a dressing-table. Drayton stepped up to this table to fix the cravat by the glass. The faint moonlight that fell on his grinning face was reflected dimly into the mirror. At that moment Mercy's sickening eyes turned toward the bed. There, in repose that was like death itself, lay the upturned face of Paul Ritson. Two faces cast by nature in the same mold--one white and serene and peaceful, the other bloated, red, smirking, distorted by passion, with cruel eyes and smoking lips. "The very thing--the very thing--damme if his own mother wouldn't take me for her son!"