Then his laughter ceased.
"Look here: you want me to do a job as can only be done by one man alive. And what do you offer me—twenty pounds? Keep it," he said; "it won't pass, sir!"
The fire had burned very low, the cheerless room was dense with smoke and noisome with the smell of dead tobacco. Drayton buttoned up to the throat the long coat he wore.
"I've summat on," he said; "good-night."
The sound of children's voices came from the bar. The little ones were going home.
"Good-night, missy, and thank you." It was a woman's voice.
"Good-night, Mercy," cried the children.
Drayton was opening the door.
"Think again," said Hugh Ritson. "You run no risk. Eleven forty-five prompt will do."