"Quite right," shouted Mrs. Drayton, in a shrill voice, putting her face to the window-pane. "Belike it's for the gentleman," she explained to herself, and then, with candle in hand, she began to mount the stairs.
The door of the room to the left opened, and Paul Ritson came out. His great strength seemed to be gone—he reeled like a drunken man.
"Landlady," he said, "when does your last train go up to London?"
"At half past twelve," said Mrs. Drayton, from two steps up the stairs.
"Can I get a fly, my good woman, at this hour of the night?"
"The fly's at the door, sir—just come, sir."
Paul went back into the room where he had left his wife.
The two men in the dark room opposite listened intently.
"Be quiet," whispered Hugh Ritson. "I knew he must think better of it. He is going. Keep still. Five minutes more, and you start away with the lady for Kentish Town. He shall walk to the station with me. The instant we leave the house, you go to the lady and say, 'I have changed my mind, Greta. We must go together. Come.' Not a word more; hurry her into the fly, and away."
"Easier said nor done, say I."