Chapter 69
The old woman was hobbling back. Hugh was standing in thought, with head bent, and the nail of his forefinger on his cheek.
"By the way, Mrs. Drayton," he said, "you should get the girl to help you a little sometimes."
"Lor's, sir, I never troubles her, being as she's like a visitor."
"Nonsense, Mrs. Drayton. She's young and hearty, and your own years are just a little past their best, you know. How's your breathing to-day--any easier?"
"Well, I can't say as it's a mort better, neither, thanking you the same, sir," and a protracted fit of coughing bore timely witness to the landlady's words.
"Ah! that's' a bad bout, my good woman."
"Well, it is, sir; and I get no sympathy, neither--leastways not from him as a mother might look to--in a manner of speaking."
"Bethink you. Is there nothing the girl can do for you when she comes?
Nothing wanted? No errand?"
"Well, sir, taking it kindly, sir, there's them finings in the cellar a-wants doing bad, and the boy as ought to do 'em, he's that grumpysome, as I declare--"
"Quite right, Mrs. Drayton. Send the girl down to them the moment she comes in, and keep her down until bed-time."
"Thank you, sir! I'm sure I takes it very kind and thoughtful of a gentleman to say as much, and no call, neither."
The landlady shuffled down-stairs, wagging gratefully her dense old noddle; the thoughtful gentleman left the key of Drayton's room in the lock on the outside of the door, and ascended a ladder that went up from the end of the pa.s.sage. He knocked at a door at the top. At first there was no answer. A dull shuffling of feet could be heard from within.
"Come, open the door," said Hugh, impatiently.
The door was opened cautiously. Drayton stood behind it. Hugh Ritson entered. There was no light in the room; the red, smoking wick of a tallow candle, newly extinguished, was filling the air with its stench.
"You take care of yourself," said Hugh. "Let us have a light."
Drayton went down on his knees in the dark, fumbled on the floor for a box of lucifers, and relighted the candle. He was in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves.
"Cold without your coat, eh?" said Hugh. A sneer played about his lips.
Without answering, Drayton turned to a mattress that lay in the gloom of one corner, lifted it, took up a coat that lay under it, and put it on.
It was the ulster with
Hugh Ritson followed Drayton's movements, and laughed slightly. "Men like you are always cautious in the wrong place," he said. "Let them lay hands on you, and they won't be long finding your--coat." The last word had a contemptuous dig of emphasis.
"Damme if I won't burn it, for good and all," muttered Drayton. His manner was dogged and subdued.
"No, you won't do that," said Hugh, and he eyed him largely. The garret was empty save for the mattress and the blanket that lay on it, and two or three plates, with the refuse of food, on the floor. It was a low room, with a skylight in the rake of the roof, which sloped down to a sharp angle. There was no window. The walls were half timbered, and had once been plastered, but the laths were now bare in many places.
"Heard anything?" said Drayton, doggedly.
"Yes; I called and told the police sergeant that I thought I was on the scent."
"What? No!"
The two men looked at each other--Drayton suspicious, Hugh Ritson with amused contempt.
"Tell you what, you don't catch me hobn.o.bbing with them gentry," said Drayton, recovering his composure.
Hugh Ritson made no other answer than a faint smile. As he looked into the face of Drayton, he was telling himself that no man had ever before been at the top of such a situation as that of which he himself was then the master. Here was a man who was the half-brother of Greta, and the living image of her husband. Here was a man who, despite vague suspicions, did not know his own ident.i.ty. Here was a man over whom hung an inevitable punishment. Hugh Ritson smiled at the daring idea he had conceived of making this man personate himself.
"Drayton," he said, "I mean to stand your friend in this trouble."
"Tell you again, the best friend to me is the man as helps me to make my lucky."
"You shall do it, Drayton, this very night. Listen to me. That man, my brother, as they call him--Paul Ritson, as his name goes--is not my father's son. He is the son of my mother by another man, and his true name is Paul Lowther."
"I don't care what his true name is, nor his untrue, neither. It ain't nothing to me, say I, and no more is it."
"Would it be anything to you to inherit five thousand pounds?"
"What?"
"Paul Lowther is the heir to as much. What would you say if I could put you in Paul Lowther's place, and get you Paul Lowther's inheritance?"
"Eh? A fortune out of hand--how?"
"The way I described before."
There was a slight sc.r.a.ping sound, such as a rat might have made in burrowing behind the part.i.tion.
"What's that?" said Drayton, his face whitening, and his watchful eyes glancing toward the door. "A key in the lock?" he whispered.
"Tut! isn't your own key on the inside?" said Hugh Ritson.
Drayton hung his head in shame at his idle fears.
"I know--I haven't forgot," he muttered, covering his discomfiture.
"It's a pity to stay here and be taken, when you might as easily be safe," said Hugh.
"So it is," Drayton mumbled.
"And go through penal servitude for life, when another man might do it for you," added Hugh, with a ghostly smile.
"I ain't axing you to say it over. What's that?" Drayton cowered down.
The bankrupt garret had dropped a cake of its rotten plaster. Hugh Ritson moved not a muscle; only the sidelong glance told of his contempt for the hulking creature's cowardice.
"The lawyer who has charge of this legacy is my friend and comrade," he said, after a moment's silence. "We should have no difficulty in that quarter. My mother is--Well, she's gone. There would be no one left to question you. If you were only half shrewd the path would be clear."
"What about her?"
"Greta? She would be your wife."
"My wife?"