As soon as the noise of the retiring steps had died away on Gubblum's ear, he dressed himself partially, opened the door of his bedroom cautiously, and stepped into the passage. He was still in the dark, and groping with one hand, he felt for the ladder by which the two men had carried their burden to the loft above. He had grasped the lowest rungs of it, and was already some steps up, when he heard a singular noise. It was something between the cry of a child and the deep moan of a sick man. Did it come from the loft? Gubblum held his head in that direction and listened. No; the sound was from the other end of the passage. Now it was gone, and all was quiet. What a strange house was this!

"Can't see a styme," thought Gubblum. "I'll away for the cannel."

Back in his bedroom he struck a match, and then stepped afresh into the passage, guarding the newly lighted candle with the palm of his hand. Then there came a shrill cry. It seemed to be before him, above him, behind him, everywhere about him. Gubblum's knees gave way, but the stubborn bit of heart in him was not to be shaken.

"A rayder queerly sort of a house," he thought; and at that instant there were heavy lunges at a door at the further end of the passage, and a cry of "Help! help!"

Gubblum darted in the direction of the voice.

"Let me out!" cried the voice from within.

Gubblum tried the door. It was locked.

"Help! help!" came again.

"In a sniffer; rest ye a bit!" shouted Gubblum, and putting the light on the floor, he planted his shoulder against the door, and one foot against the opposite wall.

"Help! help! let me out! quick, quick!" came once more from within.

"Sec a skrummidge!" shouted Gubblum, panting for breath.

Then the lock gave way and the door flew open. In the midst of the bad light Gubblum saw nothing at first. Then a woman with wild eyes and a face of anguish came out on him from the dark room. It was Mercy Fisher.

When they recognized each other there was a moment of silence. But it was only a moment, and that moment was too precious to be lost. In a flood of tears the girl told him what had happened.

Gubblum understood no more than that villainy had been at work. Mercy saw nothing but that she had been deceived and had been herself the instrument of deception. This was enough.

"The raggabrash! I'd like to rozzle their backs with an ash stick," said Gubblum.

"Oh, where have they taken him—where, where?" cried Mercy, wringing her hands.

"Don't put on wi' thee—I know," said Gubblum. "I questit them up the stairs. Come along wi' me, lass, and don't slobber and yowl like a barn."

Gubblum whipped up his candle, and hurried along the passage and up the ladder like a monkey, Mercy following at his heels.

"Belike they've locked this door forby," he said.

But no, the key was in the lock. Gubblum turned it and pushed it open. Then he peered into the garret, holding the candle above his head. When the light penetrated the darkness, they saw a man's figure outstretched on a mattress that lay on the bare floor of the empty room. They ran up to it, and raised the head.

"It's his fadder's son, I'll uphod thee," said Gubblum. "And yon riff-raff, his spitten picter, is no'but some wastrel merry-begot."

Mercy was down on her knees beside the insensible man, chafing his hands. There was a tremulous movement of the eyelids.

"Sista, he's coming tul't. Slip away for watter, lass," said Gubblum.

Mercy was gone and back in an instant.

"Let a be, let a be—he'll come round in a crack. Rub his forehead—stir thy hand, lass—pour the watter—there, that's enough—plenty o' butter wad sto a dog. Sista, he's coming tul't fast."

Paul Ritson had opened his eyes.

"Slip away for mair watter, lass—there, that's summat like—rest ye, my lad—a drink?—ey, a sup o' watter."

Paul looked around him. His filmy eyes were full of questions. But at first his tongue would not speak. He looked up at the bare skylight and around at the bleached walls, and then back into the face of the peddler. He noticed Mercy, and smiled.

"Where are we, my girl?" he said, faintly.

"This is the Hawk and Heron," she answered.

"How do I come to be here?" he asked.

Mercy covered her face, and sobbed.

"I brought you," she said, at length.

Paul looked at her a moment with bewildered eyes. Then the tide of memory flowed back upon his mind.

"I remember," he said, quietly; "I was feeling dizzy—hadn't slept two nights—not even been in bed—walked the streets the long hours through."

Everything had rushed over him in a moment, and he closed his eyes with a deep groan. At his feet Mercy buried her face and sobbed aloud.

Paul drew himself feebly up on his elbow.

"Where is Parson Christian?" he asked, and gazed around, with a faint smile.

The girl's anguish overflowed.

"That was a lie I told you," she sobbed.

The smile fled away.

"A lie! Why a lie?"

He was struggling with a dazed sense.

"I told you that Parson Christian was here and wanted you. He is not here."

And Mercy's weeping seemed to choke her.

"My good girl, and why?"

"They brought you to this room and left you, and now they are gone."

"They! Who?"

"Your brother Hugh and Mr. Drayton."

Paul looked deadly sick at heart.

"Who is this Drayton?"

"The spitten picter of yourself, my lad," said Gubblum; "the man I telt ye of lang ago—him as keeps this house."

Paul's eyes wandered vacantly. His nervous fingers twitched at the ulster that he wore.

"What's this?" he said, and glanced down at his altered dress.

"When you were insensible they stripped you of your clothes and put others on you," said Mercy.

"Whose clothes are these?"

"Mr. Drayton's."

Paul Ritson rose to his feet.

"Where are the men?" he said, in a husky voice.

"Gone."

"Where?"

"To the station—that was all I heard."

Paul gazed about with hazy eyes. Mercy flung herself at his feet and wept bitterly.

"Forgive me! oh, forgive me!"

He looked down at her with a confused expression. His brain was benumbed. He drew one arm across his face as though struggling to recover some lost link of memory.

"Why, my good lass, what's this?" he said, and then smiled faintly and made an attempt to raise her up.

"Who is at the convent at Westminster?" she asked.

Then all his manner changed.

"Why?—what of that?" he said.

"Mrs. Drayton was sent there in a cab to tell Mrs. Ritson to be at St. Pancras Station at midnight to meet her husband and return to Cumberland."

The face that had been pale became suddenly old and ghastly. There was an awful silence.

"Is this the truth?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," cried the girl.

"I think I see it all now—I think I understand," he faltered.

"Forgive me!" cried the girl.

He seemed hardly to see her.

"I have been left in this room insensible, and the impostor who resembles me—where is he now?"

He struggled with the sickness that was mastering him. His brain reeled. The palms of his hands became damp. He staggered and leaned against the wall.

"Rest ye a bit, my lad," said Gubblum. "You'll be gitten stanch agen soon."

He recovered his feet. His face was charged with new anger.

"And the wicked woman who trapped me to this house is still here," he said, in a voice thick with wrath.

"Forgive me! forgive me!" wept the girl at his feet.

He took her firmly by the shoulders, raised her to her knees, and turned her face upward till her eyes met his.

"Let me look at her," he said, hoarsely. "Who would have believed it?"

"Forgive me! forgive me!" cried the girl.

"Woman, woman! what had I done to you—what, what?"

The girl's sobs alone made answer.

In his rage he took her by the throat. A fearful purpose was written in his face.

"And this is the woman who bowed down the head of her old father nigh to the grave," he said, bitterly, and flung her from him.

Then he staggered back. His little strength had left him. There was silence. Only the girl's weeping could be heard.

The next instant, strangely calm, without a tear in his sad eyes, he stepped to her side and raised her to her feet.

"I was wrong," he said; "surely I was wrong. You could not lie to me like that, and know it. No, no, no!"

"They told me what I told you," said the girl.

"And I blamed you for it all, poor girl."

"Then you forgive me?" she said, lifting her eyes timidly.

"Forgive you?—ask God to forgive you, girl. I am only a man, and you have wrecked my life."

There was a foot on the ladder, and Jabez, the boy, stepped up, a candle in his hand. He had been waiting for the landlady, when he heard voices overhead.

"The varra man!" shouted Gubblum. "Didsta see owt of thy master down-stairs?"

Jabez grinned, and glanced up at Paul Ritson.

"Hark ye, laal man, didsta see two men leaving the house a matter of fifteen minutes ago?"

"Belike I did," said Jabez. "And to be sure it were the gentleman that come here afore—and another one."

"Another one—your master, you mean?"

Jabez grinned from ear to ear.

"Didsta hear owt?"

"I heard the gentleman say they had to be at St. Pancras at midnight."

Paul fumbled at his breast for his watch. It was gone.

"What's o'clock?" he asked.

"Fifteen after eleven, master," said Jabez. "I've just bolted up."

Paul's face was full of resolution.

"I'll follow," he said; "I've lost time enough already."

"What, man! you'll never manish it—and you as weak as watter forby. You'll be falling swat in the road like a wet sack."

Paul had pulled the door open. Excitement lent him strength. The next moment he was gone.

"Where's the master off to? St. Pancras?" asked Jabez.

"Fadge-te-fadge, gang out of my gate! Away, and lig down your daft head in bed!" said Gubblum.

Jabez did not act on the peddler's advice. He returned to the bar to await the return of Mrs. Drayton, whose unaccustomed absence gave rise to many sapient conjectures in the boy's lachrymose noddle. He found the door to the road open, and from this circumstance his swift intelligence drew the conclusion that his master had already gone. His hand was on the door to close and bolt it, when he heard rapid footsteps approaching. In an instant two men pushed past him and into the house.

"Where's Mr. Drayton," said one, panting from his run.

"He's this minute gone," said Jabez.

"Is that true, my lad?" the man asked, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"He's gone to St. Pancras, sir. He's got to be there at midnight," said Jabez.

The boy had recognized the visitors, and was trembling.

The men glanced into each other's faces.

"That was Drayton—the man that ran past us down the road," said one.

"Make sure of it," said the other. "Search the place; I'll wait for you here."

In two minutes more the men had left the house together.

A quarter of an hour later the night porter at the Hendon railway station saw a man run across the platform and leap into the up train just as the carriages were moving away. He remarked that the man was bareheaded, and wore his clothes awry, and that a rent near the collar of his long frieze ulster exposed a strip of red flannel lining. He thought he knew him.

The train had barely cleared the platform when two men ran up and came suddenly to a stand in front of the porter.

"Gone!" said one of them, with vexation.

"That would be the 11:35," said the other, "to King's Cross. Did any one get into it here, porter?"

"Yes, sergeant—Drayton, of the Hawk and Heron," said the porter.

"Your next up is 11:45 to St. Pancras?"

"Yes, sir, due at twelve."

"Is it prompt?"

"To the second."

The two men faced about.

"Time enough yet," said one.