CHAPTER XI
In the darkness of the hour preceding dawn John Corrie, fully dressed, lay on his bed listening. The sound he had been dreading yet yearning for had come at last. His sister was moving in the room above. The atmosphere was sultry, yet the man shivered. Was Rachel about to attempt the deed that might save him, or was she only restlessly repenting of her wild promise? If the former, should he stop her, or let her take her self-appointed course? One question led to another, but none got an answer.
At last he was aware that she was cautiously opening her door. He did not move. He heard her come stealthily down the stair, pausing after every creak. Presently he caught a glimpse of light under his door. It vanished, yet not so suddenly as though a candle had been blown out. She must have turned into the passage leading to the shop. What could she be wanting there at such an hour? He pretended to himself that he could not guess.
After a little while the light returned with her footsteps. It remained in his vision during the short silence that ensued. The silence ended in a heavy sigh. John Corrie lay very still.
The light went out. He heard her groping her way to the front door. He heard it open—close—softly. She was gone on her dark errand, and he had deliberately let her go. Nothing he could ever do or suffer in this world would redeem his soul from that loathsome disgrace. But John Corrie was not thinking of his soul then.
He sprang up, lit a candle and ran upstairs; thence he peeped from a window. He was in time to see a cloaked figure fade into the misty murk. The cloak bulged at one side. What was she carrying in it concealed? Again he pretended he could not guess. Returning downstairs he pretended also not to feel the strong, rank odour of paraffin, nor to notice the drips on the passage from the shop.
He returned to his bed, but now he kept the candle burning, for he was afraid of the darkness. And ere three minutes had passed, he rose, shaken with a new terror. What if the holder of the letter should, in spite of all, escape with it? . . . For a moment he wavered on the verge of collapse, then the very terror itself stiffened his nerves, cleared his mind, and drove him to action.
In an amazingly short time he was following the path taken by his sister. He wore no cloak, but both his side pockets bulged, and he carried a club-like staff. He sped swiftly through the slumbering village. He was sweating and shivering, and once his whole being leapt as if jerked at the whistle of a distant train. He did not intend to overtake Rachel; she must do her work deeming herself unobserved; yet he did not wish to be far behind her. Clear of the village, he began to trot on the grass at the side of the road.
Years ago a sanguine and enterprising individual had caused to be erected by the roadside, midway between station and village, a superior sort of timber shanty, and had labelled it “Cyclists’ Rest—Temperance Refreshments.” There were plenty of cyclists in the summer, and numerous pedestrians also, but somehow few of them seemed to be tired or thirsty; and at the end of the second season the sanguine and enterprising individual departed, unseen by human eye, leaving a small selection of aerated waters in the refreshment-room and sundry little debts for lodging and so forth in the village. Eventually the building fell to the only bidder, Sam, the postman, who converted it into two apartments, and a fairly snug home of which he was inclined to be proud.
A mere strip of garden separated the house from the road, but Sam kept it bright with flowers for eight months of the year. The front of the house was painted a pale stone-colour; the porch, the door, and the two quartets of tall, extremely narrow windows were coloured white. Altogether it provided a gay relief from the sober moorland behind it. Across the road, and separated from it by a deep ditch usually dry in summer, lay a strip of moor gently sloping upwards to the wood, through which a path supplied a short cut from the station to the village. There was no other dwelling within five minutes’ walk.
When John Corrie’s eyes began dimly to discern the house he slowed his pace till he was stealing forward with every appearance of caution and alertness. Suddenly he stopped short, dropped on hands and knees, and let himself down into the ditch where he crouched, holding his breath.
A vague figure was coming hurriedly from behind the house. On reaching the road it broke into a shambling run, its dark garment flapping like the wings of some huge night bird. As it passed the lurking watcher it panted and sobbed. Presently it disappeared round a bend, and the watcher heaved a sigh of angry relief. That was the worst of women: they could do nothing without making a fuss!
He drew himself from the ditch, and now his head and most of his face were covered with a heavy black muffler. Keeping to the grass, he darted towards the house. Opposite it, he halted for a moment, almost overcome by the thudding of his heart. Just then he perceived a thin smoke rising from the rear of the house—from the attached shed; he guessed that contained the postman’s store of coal and wood. That nerved him again. It was now or never.
Dropping his bludgeon, he brought from his pocket a hank of thin, strong rope, shook it out and tip-toed across the road. He was about to fasten one end to the door handle with the view to securing it to a pillar of the porch, when he bethought himself of another, though barely possible way. With fearful care he turned the handle—and lo, the door gave! Chance had favoured him! Sam had forgotten to lock it—not for the first time.
Sweating, John Corrie opened the door about a foot, put round his hand and removed the key from the lock. Then with infinite gentleness he drew the door shut, inserted the key, turned it and withdrew it. Almost fainting he recrossed the road, took up his staff, and fell rather than descended into the ditch.
A faint breeze was stirring at last. Smoke blown over the tarred roof of the shanty drifted to his nostrils. For a while, fingering the key, he seemed to hesitate; then, turning, he tossed it from him among the heather. The rope he coiled up and let fall at his feet. He crouched, staring at the house.
And presently a spark floated up, hovered and died. But others followed, thicker and thicker, and a glow appeared under them. Crackling sounds broke the silence, softly, timidly at first, but soon with noisy boldness. The breeze gained in strength. A fiery tongue waved above the roof, subsided, rose again and licked the tarry surface; ere long it was joined by others. A low roaring mingled with the crackling. The narrow windows were still dark, but smoke began to stream from the ventilator over the door. Woe to the sleeper if he did not waken now!
Cold with terror, fascinated by horror, Corrie knelt in his lair and gazed and gazed. Suddenly a light sprang into being in the room on the left—a small light that lasted but a moment. The sleeper had wakened and struck a match. Corrie wondered if he would wait to light a candle, but in the next moment the windows went dark. Sounds followed: a cry, the noise of a chair overturned, hurried footfalls on a bare plank floor. Then Corrie put his hands under the muffler and thrust his fingers in his ears. For the inmate was trying to open the door.
The flames were now rising high above the roof; smoke was pouring from the ventilator, trickling from under the door and through crevices about the windows and walls. A reddish glow behind the windows on the left caused the watcher to shut his eyes. But he could no longer close his ears to agony, for the prisoner was raining blows with some heavy implement on the door and lock. Once more Corrie was roused to action. What if the holder of the letter should escape with it after all? He readjusted the black muffler about his head till little more than his eyes remained uncovered, took a fresh grip on his staff, and held himself in readiness. The blows became frantic.
* * * * *
Up yonder in the wood, Colin Hayward, fagged with the long railway journey and much thinking, had thrown himself down to await the morning. He was almost asleep when the sound of knocking made him raise his head from his arms. As he did so he became conscious of a strong smell of burning timber. The sound, coupled with the odour, struck him as odd at that hour. He got up and crossed the few yards which lay between him and the verge of the wood. From there he looked down on fire and smoke, and quickly realized that the burning thing was the abode of his old friend Sam, the postman. He descended the slope as swiftly as the darkness, the treacherous ground, and the slippery heather permitted.
At last the lock was shattered, the door torn inwards. The hatchet fell from Sam’s hand as, spent and coughing most grievously, he staggered forth to reel across the road, bare-footed, in a long grey night-shirt. At the grass he stumbled and fell helplessly, in the heaving torment of smoke-charged lungs.
He was beginning to revive, when behind him, rising from hands and knees, John Corrie clubbed him over the head—once—twice—and would have struck again but that there was no need. Sam lay on his face, one hand clutching grass, the other under him, clenched against his breast. With a sob of terror, Corrie threw his cudgel into the ditch and turned his victim over. And now the back of the house was well ablaze, and in the yellow light even small things became plain. The clenched hand, for instance, held a crushed piece of paper—the little, terrible thing, the recovery of which meant salvation to Corrie. He went down on his knees to prise open the grasping fingers, but they fell apart of their own accord. He took the letter. He gloated over it. The latter proceeding was folly; his moment of exultation was to cost him dear. Hearing dulled by excitement and the thick muffler did not warn him until too late. He scrambled to his feet only to be seized viciously from behind by the collar and shaken like a rat. Then a cruel grip on his wrist caused him to drop the precious letter, and a savage kick sent him five yards beyond it on his face.
“You beastly coward!” cried a voice he knew, and all panic-stricken he picked himself up and fled.
Colin had started to pursue, when a groan from the stricken one recalled him. He picked up the letter, deeming that it must be of importance, stuffed it into his pocket, and proceeded to do what he could for Sam. Perhaps, after all, his student days had not been wholly wasted. But Sam was sore hurt. His home was a fiery furnace, and he neither knew nor cared.
CHAPTER XII
On the following afternoon Kitty and her new friend were lounging in the latter’s sitting-room, one of the four apartments of a little, old-fashioned, top flat in Long Acre. The situation of Miss Risk’s home had its drawbacks, but it was a most convenient one for her business, and she had given the house itself a charm and comfort not to be despised.
“But I can’t go on being your guest indefinitely,” Kitty was saying from her seat at the open window.
Hilda, stretched on the couch, smiled and then yawned. She had had a hard morning’s work, and the heat was oppressive.
“You have been here for about thirty hours,” she returned in a lazy voice. “Don’t say it seems like years.”
“Oh, you know what I mean, Miss Risk—”
“I think you might call me by my pretty name.”
“I’d like to,” said Kitty diffidently, “but—”
“I believe you’re afraid of me, Kitty!”
“I’m not really, but—”
“If you say ‘but’ again, I’ll go to sleep! Now listen, Kitty! You have told me a good many things about yourself, so you can no longer argue that I know nothing about you. I know far more about you than you know about me. Isn’t that so?”
“Perhaps it is, Miss—Hilda.”
“Well, then, if you keep talking about leaving me, the only conclusion I can draw is that you don’t like staying with me—”
“Oh, no, no!”
“—or that you are absurdly proud.”
Kitty hung her head.
Hilda gave a little nod of understanding.
“Kitty,” she said kindly, “won’t you trust me and let me protect you? I’ve never had any one to protect except myself. Come and sit beside me.”
The younger girl came slowly over to the couch, faltered, and fell on her knees, crying—“And no one has ever protected me, or wanted to do it, before.”
Hilda took her in her arms—strong shapely arms they were.
“Poor little soul!” she whispered; “can’t you see not only that I want you to stay here but that for your own safety’s sake you must stay here until, at least, you know something of London, and have found employment and made friends? When all that has happened, you shall be free to choose as you think best, but till then you’re my prisoner, whether you like it or not!” After a little while Kitty said tremulously, “Don’t be offended, Hilda, but—but if only you would allow me to—to pay my share.”
“Well,” answered Miss Risk in a most business-like tone, assumed mainly to satisfy the other, “we may come to terms later on—if you promise now to be my guest for a month.”
“I never knew there was a girl like you in the world!”
“No more there is!” said Hilda cheerfully.
“I never dreamed I was such a coward till that night—”
“You mislaid your courage—that was all—but you’ll find it again presently, and look here, Kitty! Until my brother finds something for you to do—”
“Oh, is he going to try?”
“John never tries—at least he never seems to; he just does. But never mind about that now. I was going to say that you can help me a bit, if you feel so disposed.”
“How? Tell me quick!”
“You used to type for your father, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes! I must show you the work I did for him. I believe I was fairly smart, but after five years, I’m afraid—”
“You’ll knock off the rust in no time. You can work away on my old machine most mornings, and when you feel it coming easy I’ll give you plenty of manuscript, my own and other people’s, too, if you want it. How’s that?”
“All the difference in the world, for it means I shan’t be entirely useless. Oh, you have made me so happy!”
“Go on!” laughed Hilda. “I like being cuddled!” But there were tears in her eyes. “Goodness!” she exclaimed next moment, “there’s somebody coming up Jacob’s Ladder!”—as she designated the steep and narrow wooden staircase leading to the flat. “A man, I should say, from the tread. Shall we flee and tidy ourselves, or simply draw down the sun blind?” She rose and went to the window. “It must be the blind, I’m afraid. Matilda is unusually alert in answering the door to-day. Don’t be alarmed, Kitty. I’ve no friends who aren’t nice, and I want you to meet them all sooner or later. Now let’s arrange ourselves at our ease, and hope it may be a particularly nice one to begin with.”
Kitty was smiling despite her nervousness when the elderly servant, whom Hilda’s brother insisted on her retaining, announced “Mr. West.”
It was at once evident to Kitty that he and Hilda were the best of friends. Next moment he was introduced to her, and there was something in his handshake as well as in his eyes that took away half her shyness.
“Miss Carstairs has come from Scotland to spend a little time with me,” Hilda said presently, “so you must give her as good an impression of the journalistic life as you can.”
“You are not in the trade, I hope, Miss Carstairs?” he said, with a faint smile; then, suddenly—“But pardon me, perhaps you are a friend of Hugh Carstairs, of Glasgow, who wrote so brilliantly some years ago. I met him once in a friend’s house just before I came to London.”
“He was my father,” Kitty said softly, with a flush of pleasure.
“Then you and I shall have at least one big subject in common,” he said warmly.
“This is splendid!” said Hilda, smiling.
“Mr. Carstairs was my ideal journalist,” Anthony went on. “I’ve often wondered why he never wrote books. Perhaps he hadn’t the time—”
“Miss Carstairs has just been telling me,” said the hostess, “that she has in her possession several unfinished works of her father’s—”
“Not here? not in London?” he cried eagerly.
“Yes,” said Kitty timidly, “I have them with me. There are several—one a play.”
“Would it be too much,” Anthony began and halted.
“Mr. West means that he would like to read them,” Hilda remarked. “I think you might trust him,” she added, with a glint of amusement. “Really, Anthony, I never saw you so enthusiastic before!”
“Wait, Hilda, until I give you some cuttings of Hugh Carstairs’ articles to read. And you, Miss Carstairs, perhaps, when you know me better, you will allow me to look at the unfinished works.”
At this point Matilda brought in tea, and the conversation became less personal. Kitty was well content to listen. She was more than interested. The five years of barren drudgery in Dunford were forgotten. She was living in a new world, the world of her girlish dreams during the last year of her father’s life, the world he had promised he would show her—some day—when his ship came home. . . . And Hilda Risk, guessing what it meant to the girl, kept West talking of people and things in his profession, till with a start he noticed the hour, and rose to go.
Hilda went with him to the door. She had a question to ask.
“Anthony,” she said, “it’s not like you to gush. Did you really admire her father’s work so much?”
“Honestly, Hilda. Why, the man was a genius, though I’m afraid he didn’t make the most of himself. Possibly your brother has not mentioned that he knew Carstairs well.”
“John! He never told me!” she exclaimed.
“As a matter of fact,” he added. “John requested me to call on you this afternoon.”
“Oh!”
“You’re not annoyed, Hilda?”, he asked rather anxiously.
“Of course not!” she smiled. “And I ought not to be surprised at this time of day at anything John does. I suppose he wanted your impression of Kitty?”
“I think he wanted to be made absolutely certain that she is the daughter of Hugh Carstairs. I was not to make any other inquiries of her. But, as you know, there isn’t much profit in asking John his reasons.”
“I do know—and we’ll leave it at that. And I’ll not ask you what you think of Kitty—yet. Come soon again and make her better acquaintance. She is very sweet, and she will be bright, too, once she gets a chance. . . . Working as hard as ever, I suppose?” she said, as he took her hand for a moment.
He smiled a little sadly. “Will you allow me to take you and Miss Carstairs to the theatre one night soon?” he said.
“Thank you; that will be a treat for us both, Anthony.”
“I’d like to introduce a friend of mine who has just turned up in London—Colin Hayward. Your brother—”
“Why, John mentioned him yesterday!”
“Then may I bring him?”
“Surely.”
“Till then, good-bye.”
Hilda returned to the sitting-room to find a new Kitty, all delight and eagerness.
“Please tell me what he writes?” she asked, almost sure that Mr. West was her friend’s lover.
“He writes beautiful things that don’t sell,” Hilda replied a trifle bitterly, “and he makes a poor but decent living from a wretched provincial paper. And,” she continued with a change of tone, “there isn’t a better man on this earth—nor a prouder. I’m telling you this, Kitty, because you are likely to meet him pretty often. He has refused a post worth £1,500 a year offered him by my brother.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because at Cromer, four years ago, he saved me from drowning, and he refuses to be paid for that. There’s pride for you!”
“Isn’t it more than pride?” Kitty softly ventured.
Miss Risk passed to the window and drew up the blind, remarking: “He is going to take us to the theatre one night soon.”
Kitty clasped her hands in rapture. “I seem to have come into Heaven!”
The other laughed. “By the way, he has a great friend who hails from your part of the world, Kitty. Mr. Colin Hayward—”
“Oh!” cried Kitty.
“You know him?”
“Not another villain, I hope!”
“Oh, no.”
“You would not mind if Mr. West brought him here?”
“Indeed, no,” said Kitty, angry with herself for blushing. It was so silly, especially as she was not in love with Colin.
Hilda did not pursue the subject. Their friendship, she felt, was still far too new for the taking of liberties, however kindly. After a pause—
“Have you decided,” she inquired, “ about letting your aunt know your address? I wish I could advise you, but I simply don’t know what to say about it.”
Kitty sighed. “I think I’ll wait for another day. If I could only let her know without my uncle learning it.”
“He can’t hurt you now.”
“I wonder,” murmured Kitty, with another sigh.
“Oh, this won’t do! Mustn’t get into the dumps again! Leave it till to-morrow, as you say. How do you feel about a walk before dinner?”
“I’d love it! And please, Hilda?”
“Go on, Kitty.”
“Will you—will you help me to buy some decent clothes?”
“Hooray!” cried Miss Risk, “that’s the proper spirit!”
Matilda came in with a telegram for her mistress.
“Reply paid, Miss,” she said retiring; “boy’s waiting.”
Hilda read the following:—
“Has your guest any recollection of hearing her father use the word zenith not in an astronomical sense?—John.”
“My brother asks an extraordinary question,” said Hilda, and handed the message to Kitty.
Kitty gazed at it, frowned and shook her head. Then—“Oh, wait! The answer to the question is ‘No,’ but once, quite recently, I heard my uncle speak of Zeniths—not zenith. But why should Mr. Risk—”
“Don’t ask me! I’ll just reply, ‘Not father but uncle,’” said Hilda, going to the writing-table.
And just then Matilda came in with another telegram.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Hilda, and with her pencil slit it open. Her gay expression faded out. She paled slightly, muttering, “Another matter,” and tore it into little pieces. Then she went on with writing the reply.
The torn telegram, which had been “handed in” at the same hour as its precursor, was also from her brother. It said—“Take very good care of your guest. No going out alone. But don’t alarm her.”
CHAPTER XIII
John Corrie was now fairly in the net. He reached his cottage in a condition verging on collapse, physical and mental, and slinking round to the back, gained admittance by the window of his own room, from which he had emerged an age, as it seemed, ago. He stood listening. . . . Not a sound. What was his sister doing? He must see her at once—not to tell her anything, but to discover whether she had learned of his having been out of doors.
But first he must remove traces of the outing. Having lit the candle, he got off his boots, and the black muffler. They must be got rid of.
In stocking feet he stole to the shop, and there made a parcel which he laid on a high shelf behind a row of tomato tins. In another part of the shop he hid his jacket in similar fashion. And then a most sickening thought struck him and almost wrecked his fear-tossed mind. The staff—Almighty! what on earth had made him fling it in the ditch? Sooner or later a search would be made; might even be going on now! Presently, his mouth craving water, he went unsteadily, spilling candle-grease by the way, to the kitchen.
And there he found his sister, in a heap on the floor. She was inert, but fully conscious. Somehow he managed to drag her up and place her in the arm-chair by the cold hearth. Then he got water, and gave her some, took a draught himself, and sat down by the table. On a sudden inspiration he blew out the candle. A wakeful, curious person might wonder to see a light at such an hour. Besides . . .
For perhaps twenty minutes the two wretched beings sat huddled in their chairs, motionless, speechless, while a feeble greyness began to filter slowly through the darkness. Then the woman spoke, neither to the man nor herself, but as to a third person, invisible, somewhere in the shadows.
“I hope he died quick. . . . I hope he didna feel the fire. . . . I did it for my brother’s sake. I promised mother I would look after him.”
Corrie rose and sat down again. He was not going to tell her that Sam had escaped the flames.
There was another silence, and through it came the sound of a person running on the dry road. Presently the sound gave place to that of knocking, then cries—shouts—more knocking—then running again—several persons—cries and shouts once more. . . .
Through the greyness the man and woman peered at each other’s pallid countenances. And she was thinking of a little brother she had tended long, long ago; and he was thinking of a clublike staff lying in a ditch. The scattered noises from the village grew to a commotion. Corrie dropped forward, his elbows on his knees, his face between his hands.
Suddenly the woman got up and came over to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder, and said with a strange tenderness—
“Dinna be feared, John. Ye’re safe. The letter’s bound to be ashes by now.”
Then she shrieked, for the room was lit by a blinding flash, and she fell to her knees. Almost immediately the house shook under an appalling crash. The long threatened storm had burst at last.
There was a pause as though to allow Earth to take one long breath before the storm and deluge—which were to prove memorable in Dunford and district.
Not many minutes had passed when something like hope came to John Corrie. Unless the staff were already discovered, he was safe so far as it was concerned, for now the ditch would be rushing a foot deep. His wits began to work again. Even if young Hayward had picked up the letter. . . .
He drew Rachel to her feet, saying shortly but not harshly: “Get to your bed, woman. I’m for out.”
“Out!” she echoed faintly. “Would ye face the wrath o’ God?”
“I would face the folk, in case they wonder. Besides, ye canna be sure that—that he’s burnt wi’ the house.”
“Oh, God!” she whispered; and a moment later—“John, bring me word he’s alive, and I’ll take oath it was me that stole the Zeniths!” She moved gropingly from the room.
So Corrie, having put on his Sunday boots and oilskins, went out into the storm to face his fellows. He did not encounter his poor victim, who was already on the way, in a summer visitor’s motor-car, to the nearest hospital, twenty miles distant; but he heard talk of concussion of the brain and a villainous-looking tramp seen in the village the previous night; also he beheld the ruins of the shanty and the brimming ditch. But for something white on the sodden grass he looked in vain; and young Hayward, it seemed, had disappeared after doing what he could for the postman.
It was nearing four when Corrie returned home. The storm had ceased, though fine rain still fell on torn-up roads, ruined crops and flooded meadows. He told Rachel exactly what he had heard, and added a little more.
“He was found by young Hayward. Supposing he had the letter in his hand when he was struck, where is it now?”
She was too exhausted by the revulsion, too thankful, to think it out.
“If you’re in danger, John, I’ll take the blame,” she faltered. “We’ll hope the letter was burned.”
“But if it’s not burned, what about Symington?”
“He mun give back the shares.”
“Ye talk foolishness, Rachel!”
“I’m wearied. I canna grasp aught except that I didna commit black murder. Let me be till the morning.”
Afraid to say more lest he should betray himself, he let her go.
At eight o’clock, the moment the wire was open, he sent a telegram to Symington—
About eleven, Symington’s housekeeper, purchasing provisions, mentioned in the course of her chatter on last night’s affair—the sole topic of conversation in Dunford—that young Mr. Hayward had called to see her employer at six o’clock that morning.
“What was he wanting at such an hour?” Corrie managed to say.
“He didna name his business, but he took a note o’ the address in London.”
This added to Corrie’s uneasiness, though he could conceive of no connexion between the early call and the letter.
About an hour later, a customer casually referred to his having observed young Hayward enter the morning train for the South, at Kenny Junction. At that Corrie wellnigh gave up. All morning he had hoped against hope that Hayward would return the letter to its owner—himself. Now he was forced to face two dreadful possibilities: first, that Hayward had recognized him last night; secondly, that Hayward knew Kitty’s address in London. And before long he perceived a third: namely, that Symington, elated by the enormous rise in Zeniths, might have been talking openly about his shares. Corrie felt like making a bolt for it. Vain to imagine mercy from Kitty after all that had passed! Only the idea that Hayward’s recognition would be a difficult thing to substantiate and the thought of his sister’s promise restrained and sustained him.
He called Rachel into the post office at a moment when no business was doing. They had scarcely spoken since three o’clock.
“Do ye stand by what ye said about the—the shares?” he asked her, not without shame.
“Aye; I’ve promised,” she answered dully.
“They’d be easier on a woman than a man,” he observed, looking away.
“It doesna matter.” She turned to go back to the shop.
“Symington’ll be here to-night,” he pursued. “There ought to ha’ been a letter from him this morning, so I wired him. Maybe we’ll manage to put everything right yet. I wish we had your niece’s address.”
She faced him. “If I had it, I wouldna tell ye,” she said quietly. “It’ll be enough if I ha’ to sacrifice myself. Speak no more to me about this business, John Corrie, for I ha’ nothing more to say. Only terrible thoughts.” And with that she left him.
CHAPTER XIV
Colin Hayward began the journey south with much to wonder about. He had obtained no light whatever on the extraordinary affair in front of the burning house, for Sam had not recovered consciousness. It was, indeed, doubtful whether he would ever do so. Colin had not the slightest suspicion as to the identity of the muffled coward whom he had seen fell the half-suffocated postman; he had not, owing to position, observed the former take anything from the latter’s helpless hand; neither had he in his rage noticed the crushed letter fall. It was in his path as he turned to the victim’s succour, and he had picked it up almost automatically, with some vague notion that it might be of consequence to somebody or other.
Then he had forgotten about it.
Now—an hour after leaving the junction—having exhausted the contents of his cigarette case, he put his hand into a pocket for a reserve packet, and encountered the document. He merely glanced at its heading, intending to place it in his letter-case for attention later. He had no intention of reading it through. Enough to learn to whom it belonged. But the words “My dear Corrie” arrested both hand and eye. Presently he told himself that there was nothing so very strange in this; the letter might easily have been dropped and left lying there hours before the ghastly affair took place. He noticed the date was of more than five years back. But in the same moment he was caught by the words “Kitty” and “Zeniths”—and “5,000 shares.”
“I’m afraid,” he said to himself, “I’ve got to read this whether I like it or not.”
It was a longish letter, written in a clear small hand on both sides of a large square sheet. The portion with which we are concerned was as follows:—
“You may perhaps find nothing in the enclosed share certificates (which, please note, are ‘bearer’) but a fresh evidence of my folly in worldly matters. Still, the Zenith Gold Mine is the only thing of the kind I ever put hard-earned money into. There are 5,000 £1 shares, and I paid 2s. apiece for them, and at the moment they are unsaleable. I acted on the advice of a friend who had seen the property, and who had knowledge of such things. He was convinced that the mine would come right in time—meaning years—and pay big dividends. Well, he may have been all wrong, and I the silliest of poor fools; but now, John, I put the shares in your keeping as a ‘possibility’ for Kitty, when she comes of age. I have never mentioned them to her—certainly not with any reference to herself—for I don’t want her to be more disappointed in me than I can help. Give them to her when she is twenty-one, and show her this letter, and if by any chance they are worth money then, or later, she will at least repay you what she may have cost you—though, of course, I am hoping she will earn enough to do that as she goes along.
N.B. Should you hear of the shares rising before then, you will just use your discretion, and do the best you can for my girl.”
Colin’s delight at the thought of Kitty having a fortune of her own was soon swamped by a flood of doubts and suspicions. The remainder of the journey was a sort of nightmare. Of only one thing could he assure himself as he neared London: Kitty’s fortune, were it in danger from persons in London or Dunford, was not going to be made an easier prey by any act of his. At first he had thought of showing the letter to Mr. Risk and asking his advice, but now he determined that his only course was to return to Dunford at the earliest possible moment, and put it into the hands of Kitty herself. He might be losing the chance of his life by such an action, and Mr. Risk might be the best and straightest of men, but Colin was so truly in love with the girl that the hopelessness of it made no difference. Consequently nothing but her happiness mattered.
It was about five o’clock when he reached Aberdare Mansions. He was admitted without delay to his employer’s study. Before he could speak, Mr. Risk, with a smile, said—
“Sorry I gave you that vain journey, Hayward. This morning a note from Symington came to the office requesting that the new certificates should be delivered to him at the Kingsway Grand Hotel.”
“Yes; that’s the address his housekeeper gave me, Mr. Risk,” said Colin. “Do you wish me to take the letter there now?” he inquired, producing it.
Risk took it and laid it on the writing-table, saying: “About noon I sent the secretary to the hotel with a similar letter, and he found that Mr. Symington had left for Scotland about two hours previously—presumably in response to a wire which the secretary was able to learn he had received.”
“Gone back to Dunford?”
“We must not assume that. Take a cigarette, Hayward, and, if agreeable to you, tell me in a few words what you know of Mr. Symington.”
“Very little, Mr. Risk, and any information I have is indirect. His father and his two brothers all died within a year, and about eighteen months ago he became the owner of what we call the White Farm—a very decent little place until he got possession. He’s not interested in farming, you know. I’ve heard he has done all sorts of things—some pretty queer—in his time. He has the reputation of being a gambler, and a speculator, but please remember that I’m repeating gossip. I”—Colin hesitated—“I really know nothing against the man.”
Risk, offering a lighted match, said quietly: “Well, what do you know in his favour?”
Colin smiled. “One is more likely to hear of a man’s faults than his virtues. Besides, as I told you, I’ve been more away from Dunford than in it during the last five years or so.”
“You are not familiar with the natives?”
“Not generally speaking. Still, I hope I have a friend or two among them.”
“Would Mr. Symington have been welcome in your home?”
“His father would have been courteously received.”
Risk nodded thoughtfully. “Please pardon so many questions, Hayward. I feel that I may now tell you why I am taking so much trouble, and giving you so much, over this Mr. Symington. About seven years ago I advised a friend who had come into a little money to put it into Zeniths for what is sometimes termed a ‘long shot.’ I did so not only because I positively knew the mines had a great future, though possibly a distant one, but also because I knew my friend would otherwise fritter away the money which he honestly believed he could save for his daughter, then a young girl. . . . Yes, Hayward? Have you something to say?”
“Please go on,” said Colin, restraining himself.
“Very well. Zeniths at that period,” the other proceeded, “were decidedly out of favour. One could buy at two or three shillings. My friend bought 5,000 at half a crown a share. At his request I did the business for him and eventually handed him ten bearer certificates for 500 shares each. I am a methodical person in some respects, and in an old diary I have a record of the transaction and the numbers of the shares. Now—one moment, please!—I had my friend’s promise that he would not part with the shares until I gave him the word. If he needed money badly, he was to let me know. Time passed, and circumstances prevented our meeting; I was much abroad. I did not hear of his death until a year afterwards, and I failed to trace his daughter. But I have always been on the watch for shares bearing the numbers recorded in the old diary, and I have not grown less keen since the shares began to move up in earnest. And now, when the shares have risen to over four pounds apiece—when my friend, had he lived, would have seen himself worth at least twenty thousand pounds—along comes a letter from a Mr. Symington covering five hundred of those same shares—”
“Mr. Risk, I have something to say—”
“One moment more!—and within a few hours of its receipt I discover, by the merest chance, the daughter of my old friend—”
“Her—his name was Carstairs—Hugh Carstairs?” exploded Colin.
“It was.”
“And no doubt you mean as well by the daughter as you meant by the father?—Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Risk!”
For an instant Risk frowned, then he smiled pleasantly. “The daughter has never seen me, but she has no better friend for her father’s sake. Yet I must try to satisfy you that I am not interested in those 5,000 shares with an eye to personal profit.” He got up and, leaving Colin hot and uncomfortable, went to a safe built into the wall behind the panelling, a door in which stood open. He came back with a thin bundle of parchment-like papers which he put into the young man’s hand.
“Kindly look at these, Hayward, and tell me what they represent.”
Reluctantly but perforce Colin examined the documents and after a little while replied a trifle huskily—
“Eighty thousand shares in the Zenith Company—and you are the owner!”
“Well, does that satisfy you that I can afford to be honest? Please don’t think I was showing off!”
Colin hung his head as he handed back the certificates—and murmured an apology. He was not so much impressed by the man’s great wealth as by his cool, straightforward answer to suspicion.
“You are evidently Miss Carstairs’ good friend,” Risk said kindly, throwing the bundle on the table, “and so your doubts do you credit. You are aware that she is in London?”
Colin jumped. Well, she had not been long in making use of the hundred pounds! “I didn’t know,” he managed to say fairly steadily, and could have asked many questions.
“She is staying with my sister,” continued Risk. “My sister was here a few minutes ago. Sorry you did not meet. If you like, we shall call upon her after dinner. But now as to Symington, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to make another night journey; only you need not start till 11.30, when you will find a sleeping berth on the train. Am I working you too hard?”
“Rather not!” cried Colin. “But, Mr. Risk, I must not delay another moment to show you this.” He produced the crumpled letter. “When you have read it, I will answer any questions I can.”
Risk took the letter and started slightly.
“Hugh’s writing!” he murmured. He read carefully and without apparent emotion. Having come to the end, he sighed and said softly: “Just tell me all you can, Hayward.”
Colin made a brief and simple relation of his experience beside the burning house. He also told what he knew of the Corries. His host heard him out in silence—and thereafter remained in thought for a space.
Then he said: “You have raised a lot of questions, Hayward, but I must try to put them in order before I ask them. Certainly we shall have enough to talk about this evening, and I’m afraid we must postpone the call upon my sister. In any case I don’t think we ought to bring Miss Carstairs into the business before we cannot avoid doing so. I have learned that she has no knowledge of the purchase of Zeniths by her father. It would be a pity to excite or alarm her unnecessarily. At the same time, this letter of Corrie’s in itself proves nothing against the man. I am not in Miss Carstairs’ confidence, and my sister has not felt at liberty so far to tell me what the girl has confided to her; but I can’t help suspecting, after what you have told me, that Miss Carstairs was not particularly happy in Dunford, and that she may possibly have run away.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Colin almost inaudibly.
“Only,” continued the other, “I am loth to believe that she had so little common sense to attempt London with nothing in her purse and no friends in view—for you have given me to understand that such was her position. Isn’t that so?” he asked, with a keen glance at his guest.
Colin felt himself reddening.
“Look here,” Risk said pleasantly, “won’t you help me by being open with me? I’m the older man, and I’ve been pretty frank with you. The fuller the confidence between us, the better we shall work together. Now I do not doubt for a moment that you were honestly surprised to hear of Miss Carstairs being in London—”
“So soon,” added Colin, before he could prevent himself.
“You mean?”
“Mr. Risk,” cried the young man, half-angry, half-amused, “you would get the truth out of any one! Well, I’ll trust you; but she must never know.” And he confessed to sending Kitty the hundred pounds.
“And how much had you for your own needs when you arrived in London?” was the first question from Risk.
“Fifteen odds. But, you know, I couldn’t have taken the money for myself.”
The host’s smile was kindly. “I doubt whether you are going to be a great worldly success, Hayward,” he said, “but I’m sure you are on the right road to happiness.”
Colin gave his head a rueful shake. “Please understand,” he said shyly, “that there’s nothing between Miss Carstairs and me except a little ordinary friendship.”
“Thank you for telling me about the money,” said Risk, in a more business-like tone. “Now as to this letter, what is your suggestion?”
“That you keep it—in your safe—for the present, Mr. Risk.”
A slight frown contracted the older man’s brow. “It is a horrible thing,” he remarked, “to be retaining another man’s property, and yet I think the circumstances will excuse, though I still hope they may not justify, the action. You see, if Mr. Corrie is innocent, we are doing him a great wrong; if he is guilty—well, we are depriving him of a rope to hang himself with. On the whole, I think you ought to call on him to-morrow morning and hand him back the letter—which I shall keep until it is time for you to start.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Colin, aghast.
“And you need not trouble about Mr. Symington for the present. Let us assume them both innocent until we can prove them guilty.”
“But Kit—Miss Carstairs’ fortune!”
“Say the word, and I will hand over to you 5,000 of my own shares to hold until you are satisfied that I am dealing fairly with her interests.”
Colin said nothing.
“I had hoped you were going to trust me,” the other murmured.
“Mr. Risk,” cried the young man distractedly, “put yourself in my place! What would you do?”
“I’d at least think over it,” Risk replied cheerfully. “I’ll give you half an hour. I have an engagement now—with a photographer, of all people—and I’m sure you would like a bath and a change of linen after those journeyings. My man will look after you.” He pressed a bell-button on the table. “And while you are thinking over it, please keep remembering this: that there is only one right way of doing a thing—which is my way!” He laughed and extended his hand. Then he became grave. “Hugh Carstairs once rendered a great service to my mother when she was abroad and alone. He is dead, but I remember always. And if any man tries to rob Hugh Carstairs’ daughter, and cheat Hugh in his grave—then God help that man! He shall not escape me!”
The servant opened the door and stood at attention. Knowing not what to think, Colin rose and passed out.
* * * * *
At the same hour Hilda Risk was ascending to her flat in Long Acre. On the second landing she came to an abrupt stop. She had walked from her brother’s home, intending to make a purchase on the way—and had forgotten all about it. “Trying to think of too many things at once,” she reprimanded herself, and retraced her steps.
As she emerged upon the street she almost collided with a man apparently about to enter. He drew back with a muttered apology, and she passed on her way with a vague feeling of having seen him before. He had a sharp, rather pinched countenance, small dark moustache, and his bowler hat was decidedly shabby. So much she noticed. Then she dismissed the matter, proceeded on her errand, returned home to find Kitty happy at the typewriter, but happier still to see her, and settled down to some journalistic work which was to keep her busy most of the evening. As for the man, he made for Covent Garden telegraph office.
In the middle of the night, being wakeful, she had an odd recollection of the pinched face under the shabby bowler. And now she remembered where she had seen the man before. Why, only half an hour had elapsed between the first and second encounter! For she had noticed him on the opposite pavement as she was leaving Aberdare Mansions.
“The beast followed me!” she thought suddenly.
CHAPTER XV
“You bungler!”
Mr. Symington’s countenance was sickly; his voice was full of cold and bitter disgust.
The wretched Corrie had come to the end of his sorry confession, not without interruptions mainly of an angry, abusive nature. And now the verdict—“You bungler!” Somehow it stung most of all.
“It’s easy to call names,” he rejoined resentfully. “I’m no’ the only bungler. If ever a man let a girl slip through his fingers it was you. Ye should ha’ had her easy that night—while she was terrified—after she had taken the post office money—”
“I don’t believe she took any money—”
“Then how could she pay her fare to London?”
“Probably the postman lent—gave—her it.”
The postmaster forced a grin. “Well, ye can believe that if ye like. And then,” he went on quickly, “ye had your chance in the train—and lost it!”
“I’ve told you why.”
“Well, if ye had got the girl, the letter wouldna ha’ mattered so much, for ye would ha’ got the Zeniths wi’ her. So ye can blame yourself as well as me.”
There was a silence. Corrie sat glowering at the floor and plucking at his lower lip. Symington scowled openly at him. They were in the privacy of the parlour. It was about nine o’clock and growing dark.
Suddenly Symington emitted a short, ugly laugh. “So this is what you brought me back from London for! Well, I don’t wonder at your being afraid. Between embezzlement and attempted murder—”
“Whisht, man, for God’s sake!”
“It may be murder itself yet—”
“Be quiet, damn ye!”
“Look here, Corrie; what’ll you do if Sam recovers?”
“He canna recover—I heard it an hour before ye arrived. But supposing he does recover, what can he do without the letter?”
“You’re perfectly sure he didn’t spot you?”
“Aye; I’m sure—and I’m almost sure young Hayward didna’ recognize me.”
“Otherwise you wouldna be sitting here now—eh?”
“Let that pass,” said Corrie, restraining his temper. “The point is—the letter.”
“But I don’t happen to be interested in the letter.”
“Ye’ve got to be interested in it! If I canna get back the letter, I’ll need to get back the shares.”
“I’m afraid you won’t get back the shares.”
Corrie exploded. “Would ye ruin me—send me to the jail?”
Symington ignored the outburst. “I bought the shares from you,” he said calmly, “and paid for them. I have your acknowledgment. I may say that I intend to hold them till September, when a first dividend will be declared, which, I am informed, will send them to ten pounds—”
“Ten pound! Fifty thousand for the lot!” gasped Corrie.
“Just so. But rather than risk being involved in your dirty affairs, I’ll sell the lot to-morrow for what I can get and—er—emigrate.”
“Ye swine!—but ye’ll ha’ the police after ye!”
“Why?”
Corrie rose, sat down again, and writhed in his impotence.
“I might have the lawyers after me,” Symington admitted easily, “but the lawyers always take a —— of a time to get to work, and I generally travel quickly. However, I think you’re making too much of your own danger. Kitty is not likely to attempt to prosecute you, since you can prove that she tampered with the post office money.” He peered through the dusk at the other’s face. “Isn’t that so?”
“Aye, that’s so,” Corrie managed to reply. He was caught in the toils of his own making.
After a little while Symington said: “Why don’t you make Kitty come back here?”
Corrie started, then dropped his gaze. “How can I do that when I dinna ken where she is?”
Symington took out the telegram he had found on his arrival.
“Is that her address?” cried the other.
“It may be. It is certainly the address of the lady who took charge of her on the train, and now that I’ve got it, I’ll soon find where Kitty is.”
“How did ye get it?”
“Never mind. But it might be worth your while to send a wire, first thing in the morning to Kitty, at this address. Just say: ‘Serious for you if not home within twenty-four hours’ . . . How’s that?”
Corrie groaned. “She wouldna come. . . . Maybe she’s seen the letter by this time.”
“Maybe she hasn’t. It’s a chance anyway—your only chance, perhaps. Will you wire—put it stronger if you like—in the morning?”
“I—I tell ye, she wouldna come.”
Symington got to his feet. “I believe,” he said slowly, “it was a filthy lie about the post office money.”
Corrie shrank in his chair. He was at the end of his endurance. “I did it,” he stammered “to help you.”
“Did what?”
“P—put the five-pun’ note in her drawer.”
“God damn you!” cried Symington, raising his fist. “You did it to help yourself to half the—” He stopped short with a stifled curse.
Miss Corrie came in with a lighted lamp, which she set on the table.
“Are ye quarrelling?” she quavered. She seemed to have grown ten years older during the past forty-eight hours.
Symington strode by her, but halted in the doorway.
“I’m going back to London to-morrow,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want any more wires from you.” Thereupon he went out.
Rachel turned to her brother.
“John, John,” she cried piteously, “will he no’ help ye?”
The unhappy man threw out his arms, let them fall on the edge of the table and bowed his face on them. Helplessly his sister regarded him, then turned and left him to himself. She went to her room and fell on her knees. Had Kitty appeared in that hour, one may presume that she would have been offered the miserable confession of a miserable sinner. But there is an old saying concerning the devil when he was sick. . . .
* * * * *
Shortly, after eight the following morning, Colin, carrying a light overcoat and a small suitcase, entered the post office. The dingy place was flooded with sunlight; even the passage to the shop was filled with it. The counter was unattended. Upon it Colin laid the suitcase and coat. Raising the lid he disclosed among sundry articles pertaining to a lengthy night journey a little box camera. For a moment or two he fingered it somewhat nervously. Then at the back—i.e., the bottom—of the case he drew aside a strip of leather, uncovering a small round hole against which he fitted the eye of the camera. He let down the lid so far: it was kept from closing by his left hand which remained inside. Presently, drawing a long breath, he rapped smartly on the counter.
Almost immediately Miss Corrie appeared in the short passage. At the sight of him she seemed to stumble, and as she recovered herself he said—
“Can I see Mr. Corrie for a moment?”
Without answering she turned and went back. It seemed many minutes before Corrie himself appeared. Colin thought he had never seen a more ghastly-looking creature. The countenance was unreadable, but the man’s soul was torn between terror and hope.
As he stepped into the office there was a scarcely audible click from the suit-case.
“Morning,” he said huskily, and ran his tongue over his lips.
“Morning, Mr. Corrie,” replied Colin, fairly cheerfully. He raised the lid and brought forth a sealed envelope without superscription. He handed it over the counter, saying, “You might look and see if the paper enclosed belongs to you.”
Corrie took it with shaking fingers and moved back from the counter. He cleared his throat. “Ye mean me to open it, Mr. Hayward?”
“Certainly,” Colin could have pitied the man as he turned a second film silently into position.
The envelope was very firmly gummed, and Corrie’s fingers fumbled in a fashion painful to witness. But at last it was torn open—the precious letter was in his hand. He looked as if he were going to cry. Now the click might have been ten times louder without his hearing it. He was dazed with relief.
Colin closed the case, feeling almost guilty.
“Is it yours, Mr. Corrie?”
Corrie seemed to pull himself together. “Aye, it’s mine, sure enough, and—and I’m obliged to ye, Mr. Hayward.” The old cunning came to his aid. “I lost it more’n a week ago. Might I ask where ye found it?”
“On the grass across the road from the postman’s house, while it was burning,” answered Colin, as naturally as he could.
“Well, well! That’s mysterious, for it’s more’n a month since I was that road, except the morning after the fire. Somebody mun ha’ found it and lost it again. Well, once more, I’m obliged to ye, though the paper’s no’ o’ any great consequence. It was written by my poor brother-in-law when he wasna quite right in his head. Still, I’m glad to have it, Mr. Hayward, thank ye.”
“I should explain,” said Colin, concealing with an effort his disgust, “that after I picked it up I forgot about it until I was in the train for London. Good morning, Mr. Corrie.” He caught up case and coat, and hurried out before Corrie could frame another sentence.
“Rachel!—here, quick!”
She came in haste, almost weeping.
“Oh, John, John, ha’ ye got it back?”
“Aye,” he answered shortly, with something of his old truculence of tone.
“Oh, God be thanked!” she murmured.
“Ye’ll ha’ to manage by yourself for an hour,” he said rapidly, “I mun hurry to White Farm—”
“But now, John, ye’ll tell Kitty the truth,” she cried excitedly. “I got her address this morning. I can trust ye wi’ it now, for ye’re a changed man, as I’m a changed woman—”
“What’s the address?”
“366 Long Acre, London—care o’ Miss Risk.”
“I’ll mind it. Well, I mun run, or I’ll miss Symington. I’ll master him yet—aye, I will that, by God!”
“But ye—ye’ll tell Kitty the truth, John—ye’ll write to her this very day—will ye no’?” she caught his arm.
“Pah!” he shook her off. “Let me gang, woman! Well, well. I’ll see. I’ll see.”
Alone—“God!” she whispered, “is he no’ a changed man after all?”
Symington was at breakfast when Corrie broke in upon him.
“What the devil do you want?” was the spurious farmer’s greeting.
“I’ve got back the letter?”
“Sit down and don’t make a scene,” said Symington, after a moment. “Tell me about it quietly. And look here, Corrie; I was a bit rough on you last night—”
“Ye were that! But now it’s my turn—”
“One moment. I had good cause for my annoyance—you must admit that much. But after I left you, I thought it over in cold blood, and came to the only conclusion possible. You and I must continue to work together; we must stick to the original bargain—”
“Ye’ll mean that ye’ll try to marry her yet and pay me half the profits—”
“Exactly! Now tell me about the letter.”
Under this coolness Corrie’s violence collapsed. He seated himself, saying: “But can I trust ye to keep a’ I said last night secret?”
“We have got to trust each other, Corrie. Let us forget about last night. . . . Now go ahead.”
By the end of the postmaster’s brief recital Symington’s brows were contracted.
“It’s a puzzler,” he remarked. “I should say that Hayward returned the letter for one of two reasons: either he hadn’t read it through, or else he wants to stand well with you on account of Kitty. What do you think?”
Corrie shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, but ’twill do neither of us good if he comes across her in London—”
“How do you know he’s going back there?”
“I canna’ say for certain, but I’ve heard o’ talk among the servants that there was trouble with his father the other night.”
“Possible,” Symington grinned and became grave. “Then what’s he doing back here?”
“Ye beat me there. But if ye want advice, it’s just this: get a hold o’ the girl without delay. That’s the only way now to make absolute sure o’ the Zeniths. I can give ye her address for certain.”
“Well, I’m hanged!”
“My sister got it this morning. Write it down, will ye?”
“It’s just as I thought,” said Symington, a moment later, “but I’m obliged to you, Corrie. And, as you say, it’s the only way to make sure of the Zeniths without risking trouble. I’ll go south to-night.”
“How are ye going to get a hold o’ her? Ye’ve got to mind she’s wi’ friends—at least I suppose so.”
“You can leave that to me. Kitty won’t escape me a third time! I wonder if she’s much in love with that fellow Hayward. Well, if she is, I’ll make use of the fact.”
“I’d give something to ha’ him out o’ the road,” said Corrie, with sudden viciousness. “I’ve been thinkin’ he maybe kens more’n he’s shown. If Sam was to get better after a’—”
“Don’t start brooding on that!” said Symington shortly. “By the way, have you destroyed the letter?”
“No, I’m going to keep it—safely this time.”
“Why on earth—”
Corrie glared at his fellow-conspirator. “I intend to trust ye, Symington,” he said slowly. “Same time, I warn ye, if ye try to get the better o’ me, I’ll take the risk o’ handing the letter to Kitty Carstairs and telling her the whole cursed story.”