"You and I are meant to be friends, Mr. Drayton," he said. "But let us first understand each other. Your idea that you could find your parents in Cumberland was a pure fallacy."
Drayton shook off the stupor of liquor, and betrayed a keen if momentary interest.
"The book of the asylum in which she was confined, after the attempted suicide, contains the record--"
"Contains the record of her escape and subsequent recovery--dead. The body was picked out of the river, recognized by the authorities as that of the unknown woman, and buried in the name she gave."
Hugh Ritson's face underwent a momentary change.
"That is indifferent," he said; "I forget."
"Sure you forget?" said Drayton. "Couldn't be Ritson, eh?"
"Assuredly not--the name was not Ritson."
The tone irritated Mr. Drayton. He glanced down with a look that seemed to say that Hugh Ritson had his Maker to thank for giving him the benefit of an infirm foot.
Hugh Ritson mollified him by explaining that if he had any curiosity as to the name, he could discover it for himself. "Besides," said Hugh, "what matter about the name if your mother is dead?"
"That's true," said Drayton, who, being now appeased, began to see that his anger had been puerile.
"Depend upon it, your father, wherever he is, is a cipher," said Hugh Ritson.
Drayton got on to his feet and trudged the floor uneasily. An idea had occurred to him. "The person picked out of the river may have been another woman. I've heard of such."
"Possibly; but the chance of error is worth little to you." Hugh looked uncomfortable as he said this, but Drayton saw nothing.
"Bah! What matter?" said Drayton, and, determined to cudgel his brains no longer, he reached for the brandy and drank another half glass. There was then an interchange of deep amity.
"Tell me," said Hugh, "what passed at the Ghyll on Monday night?"
"The Ghyll? Monday? That was the night of the snow. What passed? Nothing."
"Wanted to see your mother. Saw your brother one night late at the door of the parson's house. Saw you at the fire. At the fire?--certainly. Stood a matter of a dozen yards away when that young buck of a stableman drove up with the trap. What excuse for going? Blest if I remember--summat or other; knocked, and no one came. I don't know how long and all I stood cooling my heels at the door. Then I saw a light coming from a room on the first floor, and up I went and knocked. 'Come in,' says somebody. I went in. Withered old party got up. Black crape and beads, you know. But, afore I could speak, she reeled like a top and fell all of a heap. Blest if the old girl didn't take me for a ghost!" Mr. Drayton elevated his eyebrows, and added with emphasis, "I got out."