"Assuredly not—the name was not Ritson."
The tone irritated Mr. Drayton. He glanced down with a look that seemed to say that Hugh Ritson had his Maker to thank for giving him the benefit of an infirm foot.
Hugh Ritson mollified him by explaining that if he had any curiosity as to the name, he could discover it for himself. "Besides," said Hugh, "what matter about the name if your mother is dead?"
"That's true," said Drayton, who, being now appeased, began to see that his anger had been puerile.
"Depend upon it, your father, wherever he is, is a cipher," said Hugh Ritson.
Drayton got on to his feet and trudged the floor uneasily. An idea had occurred to him. "The person picked out of the river may have been another woman. I've heard of such."
"Possibly; but the chance of error is worth little to you." Hugh looked uncomfortable as he said this, but Drayton saw nothing.
"Bah! What matter?" said Drayton, and, determined to cudgel his brains no longer, he reached for the brandy and drank another half glass. There was then an interchange of deep amity.
"Tell me," said Hugh, "what passed at the Ghyll on Monday night?"
"The Ghyll? Monday? That was the night of the snow. What passed? Nothing."