CHAPTER IV.
When Drayton went out, Hugh Ritson walked into the bar. The gossips had gone. Only the landlady was there. The door to the room opposite now stood open.
"Mrs. Drayton," said Hugh, "have you ever seen this face before?"
He took a medallion from his pocket and held it out to her.
"Lor's a mercy me!" cried the landlady; "why, it's her herself as plain as plain—except for the nun's bonnet."
"Is that the lady who lodged with you at Pimlico—the mother of Paul?"
"As sure as sure! Lor's, yes; and to think the poor young dear is dead and gone! It's thirty years since, but it do make me cry, and my husband—he's gone, too—my husband he said to me, 'Martha,' he said, 'Martha—'"
The landlady's garrulity was interrupted by a light scream: "Hugh, Hugh!"
Mercy Fisher stood in the door-way, with wonder-stricken eyes and heaving breast.
In an instant the poor little soul had rushed into Hugh Ritson's arms with the flutter of a frightened bird.