She bustled down the stairs as fast as her stiff joints would let her, but the knock came again.
"Mercy me, mercy me! and whoever is it?"
"Damme, move your bones, and let me in!"
The door flew open with pressure from without. Ghastly white, yet dripping with perspiration, his breath coming in short, thick gusts, his neck bare, his shirt-collar torn aside, the lappel of the frieze ulster gone, and the rent of the red flannel lining exposed, Paul Drayton entered. He was sober now.
"Where is he?" with an oath.
"I'm here," said Hugh Ritson, walking through the bar and into the bar-room to the right, and candle in hand.
Drayton followed him, trying to laugh.
"Am I in time?"
"Of course you are," with a hard smile.
"Fearing I might be late."