"For God's sake, be a man!" said Hugh, bitterly.
"D'ye call this a man's work?" muttered Drayton.
The light laugh once more. "Perhaps not so manly as robbing the dead and dying," said Hugh Ritson, and his voice was deep and cold.
Mercy heard another muttered oath. Dear God! what was about to be done? Could she escape? The door was closed. Still, if she could but reach it, she might open it and fly away.
At that instant, Hugh Ritson, as if apprehending her thought, said, "Wait," and then stepped back to the door and drew the snap bolt. Mercy leaned against the wall, and heard the beating of her heart. In the darkness she knew that Paul Drayton had thrown off his coat. "A good riddance!" he muttered, and the heavy garment fell with a thud.
Hugh Ritson had returned to the bed-head. "Give me a hand," he said; "raise him gently—there, I'll hold him up—now draw off his coat—quietly, one arm at a time. Is it free? Then, lift—away."
Another heavy garment fell with a thud.
"What's the fence got in his other pockets, eh?"
"Come, lend your hand again—draw off the boots—they're Cumberland make, and yours are cockney style—quick!"
Drayton stepped to the bottom of the bed and fumbled at the feet of the insensible man. He was then within a yard of the spot where the girl stood. She could feel his proximity, and the alcoholic fumes of his breath rose to her nostrils. She was dizzy, and thought she must have fallen. She stretched out one hand to save herself, and it fell on to the bed-rail. It was within a foot of Drayton's arm.