"You take care of yourself," said Hugh. "Let us have a light."
Drayton went down on his knees in the dark, fumbled on the floor for a box of lucifers, and relighted the candle. He was in his shirt-sleeves.
"Cold without your coat, eh?" said Hugh. A sneer played about his lips.
Without answering, Drayton turned to a mattress that lay in the gloom of one corner, lifted it, took up a coat that lay under it, and put it on. It was the ulster with the torn lapel.
Hugh Ritson followed Drayton's movements, and laughed slightly. "Men like you are always cautious in the wrong place," he said. "Let them lay hands on you, and they won't be long finding your—coat." The last word had a contemptuous dig of emphasis.
"Damme if I won't burn it, for good and all," muttered Drayton. His manner was dogged and subdued.
"No, you won't do that," said Hugh, and he eyed him largely. The garret was empty save for the mattress and the blanket that lay on it, and two or three plates, with the refuse of food, on the floor. It was a low room, with a skylight in the rake of the roof, which sloped down to a sharp angle. There was no window. The walls were half timbered, and had once been plastered, but the laths were now bare in many places.
"Heard anything?" said Drayton, doggedly.
"Yes; I called and told the police sergeant that I thought I was on the scent."
"What? No!"