When the hand was raised the face twitched slightly, the eyes closed with a convulsive tremor, and the half-lifted head fell back on to the pillow.
"He'll be quieter than ever now," said Hugh Ritson, softly. Mercy thought she must have screamed, but the instinct of self-preservation kept her still. She stirred not a limb. Her head rested against the wall, her eyes peered into the darkness, her parched tongue and parted lips burned like fire.
"Quick! put his clothes on to your own back, and let us be gone."
Drayton drew on the garments and laughed hoarsely. "And a good fit, too—same make of a man to a T—ex—act—ly!"
The window and the door stood face to face; the bed was on the left of the door, with the head at the door-end. The narrow alcove in which the girl stood was to the left of the window, and in front of the window there was a dressing-table. Drayton stepped up to this table to fix the cravat by the glass. The faint moonlight that fell on his grinning face was reflected dimly into the mirror.
At that moment Mercy's sickening eyes turned toward the bed. There, in repose that was like death itself, lay the upturned face of Paul Ritson. Two faces cast by nature in the same mold—one white and serene and peaceful, the other bloated, red, smirking, distorted by passion, with cruel eyes and smoking lips.
"The very thing—the very thing—damme if his own mother wouldn't take me for her son!"
Hugh Ritson stepped to Drayton's side. When he spoke his voice was like a cold blast of wind.
"Now listen: From this moment at which you change your coat for his you cease to be Paul Drayton, and become Paul Ritson."
"Didn't you say I was to be Paul Lowther?"