Drayton's eyes opened in a stare of blank amazement.
"And what about me?" he asked.
"You," said Hugh Ritson, and a scarcely perceptible sneer curled his lip—"you shall stand in his shoes."
A repulsive smile crossed Drayton's face. He fumbled the torn lapel with restless fingers. His eyes wandered to the door. There was a moment's silence.
"Him?" he said, with an elevation of the eyebrows.
Hugh Ritson bent his head slightly. Drayton stood with mouth agape.
Old Mrs. Drayton was pottering around the bar preparatory to going to bed.
"I'll be a-bidding you good-night, sir. Paul, you'll lock up after the gentleman."
"Good-night, Mrs. Drayton."
The landlady hobbled away. But from midway up the stairs her querulous voice came again. "The poor young thing—I declare she's a-crying her eyes out."