ped back into the hall. There he
stood some minutes with eyes riveted on one spot. Then he hurried away
to his room. As he went up the stairs he laughed again.

Back at his bedside he poured himself another glass of brandy, and once
more lay down to sleep. He certainly slept this time, and his sleep was
deep.

Natt's dreamy ear heard a voice in the hall. He had drunk his hot ale,
and from the same potent cause as his master, he also had slept, but
with somewhat less struggle. Awakened in his chair by the unaccustomed
sound, he stole on tiptoe to the kitchen door. He was in time to see
from behind the figure of a man ascending the stairs carrying a lamp
before him. Natt's eyes were a shade hazy at the moment, but he was
cock-sure of what he saw. Of course it was Mister Paul, sneaking off to
bed after more "straitforrad" folk had got into their nightcaps and
their second sleep. That was where Natt soon put himself.

When all was still in that troubled house, the moon's white face peered
through a rack of flying cloud and looked in at the dark windows.

CHAPTER X.

Next morning, Tuesday morning, Hugh Ritson found this letter on his
table:

"Dearest,--I do not know what is happening to me, but my eyes get
worse and worse. To-day and yesterday I have not opened them. Oh,
dear, I think I am losing my sight; and I have had such a fearful
fright. The day after I wrote to you, Mrs. Drayton's son came home,
and I saw him. Oh, I thought it was your brother Paul, and his name
is Paul, too, but I think now it must be my eyes--they were very bad,
and perhaps I did not see plain. He asked me questions, and went away
next morning. Do not be long writing, I am, oh, so very lonely. When
are you coming to me? Write soon.

Your loving,

Mercy."

Hugh Ritson had risen in a calmer mood. He was prepared for a disclosure
like this. Last night he had been overwhelmed by the discovery that Paul
Ritson was not the son of Robert Lowther. With the coming of daylight a
sterner spirit of inquiry came upon him. The question that now agitated
him was the identity of the man who had been mistaken for Paul.

After Mercy's letter the mystery was in a measure dispelled. There could
hardly be the shadow of a doubt that the man who had slept at the Pack
Horse--the man who had been seen by many persons at the fire--the man
who Greta had encountered in the lane--was one and the same with the man
whom Mercy