Kitty Carstairs

Afterwards he would go on to Glasgow, and thence hack to London by a line that did not pass near Dunford. In this he was simply obeying the instructions of Mr. Risk.

That nearly a fortnight should have passed without any effort on Symington’s part to “get a hold” of Kitty may seem to the reader to require some explanation.  Possibly sufficient will be found in a conversation between Risk and Colin, which took place on the twelfth day after the latter’s call on the postmaster of Dunford.  Colin had returned from Scotland, only to be dispatched, within a few hours, to an address in Amsterdam with a belt full of finely broken bottle glass next his skin, which he believed to be a fortune in uncut precious stones.  Back from Holland he found written mstructions to proceed to Madrid to fetch a little box purporting to contain 3,000 sovereigns, and actually concealing about half a hundredweight of lead.

“Well, Hayward, you’ve been serving me so far pretty much with your eyes shut: I wonder if you care to continue with your eyes open.  I warn you that some of the work may be dull and most of it will be hard.  I have got plenty of young men who work well in their own particular grooves, but I want one who is prepared to take on any job I put before him, just as I, with so many different interests, have had to do in the past for myself.  I don’t expect you to learn everything at once, but I should expect you to be interested in everything that interests me.  And I offer you £500 for the first year.”

Colin almost leapt from his seat.  “£500, Mr. Risk!  Why, I’ll never be worth that!”

“You’ll think differently six months hence.  Meantime, do you accept?”

“Oh, rather!—and thank you a—”

“Then let’s talk of something else.  For instance, I have word that your friend the postman has a chance of recovering, and I have to tell you about our friend Symington.”

“I’ve been wondering,” said Colin, “whether he accepted your invitation to call at the office.”

“You can’t prevent him selling the shares?”

“I could do that by circularizing all the exchanges and brokers, but sooner or later that would mean publicity.  Besides, I want to give Mr. Symington rope just as I’ve given it to Mr. Corrie.”

“It may prove awfully expensive rope, Mr. Risk,” ventured Colin.

“I’m ready to pay for my amusement,” the other pleasantly returned, “and you don’t want me to tell you again that I will replace every share it may cost Miss Carstairs.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Colin.  “Only—well, you have been so good to me that I’d hate to see you lose—”

Colin laughed.  “I’m afraid I’ve had no experience, but I’m at your service, Mr. Risk.  I suppose,” he went on, “Symington has already converted some of the 500 shares into cash.”

“We may assume that much.  To put it mildly, he has been on the spree since the day he got the new certificates.”

“You have had him watched?”

Risk nodded.  “And I have gone into his past to some extent.  He is not a desirable person, I fear.  But we shall leave him for the present.  My sister and Miss Carstairs, also your friend West, are dining with me to-night, and I hope you are free to join us.”

Colin flushed with pleasure.

“I should like you,” continued Risk, “to make your quarters here for the present.  Sharp has a room ready for you.  And now I’m going to ask you an impertinent question.  Have you any debts?”

“No—well, I owe my father £100,” the young man replied ruefully.

It was no shame to Colin then if his eyes were moist.  Surely his father would think kindlier of him now.

An hour later he and Kitty were face to face.  Ages long it seemed since their parting in the little wood, less than three weeks ago!  How much had happened since then!  Perhaps Kitty was more at her ease than he.  She had slipped into the new, pleasant life as though she belonged to it.  She was still a little shy, but not awkwardly so.  She had never been “countrified,” yet Colin had always thought of her as a country maid—and had loved her none the less for that.  In sunlight and moonlight he had deemed her the prettiest creature alive.  But now, under the shaded electric lamps of a London drawing-room in a white muslin frock that gave glimpses of her neck and arms, he beheld her, and his faithful heart ached at her fresh loveliness.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” she whispered, smiling, as they shook hands.

Nevertheless it was a cheerful little dinner-party, and during it the love-lorn young man and Hilda Risk laid the foundations of a lasting friendship.  Towards the close of the repast Kitty was telling the host of her father’s unfinished novel which Mr. West had just completed.

“He did it in six days, Mr. Risk,” she said warmly, “and I could not have told that it was not my father’s own work.  It was wonderful.”

“Why?” asked Risk.

“Too much unlike recent successes, I suppose,” said West drily.  “And I believe it would draw all London.”

“Miss Carstairs,” said Risk kindly, “wouldn’t you like to see your father’s play performed?”

The girl’s shining eyes answered for her.

“I think I can persuade Craven,” remarked Risk, turning to West.  “Can you arrange a meeting between us for the day after to-morrow?”

“By jove!” said West softly.  “The thing’s done!  Miss Carstairs, take my word for it, that play will bring you a little fortune.  Risk, God bless you!”

Kitty looked from one to the other.  “Is it—is it really and truly going to be?” she asked, tremulously.

“Leave it to Mr. Risk,” cried West in high delight.

“And Mr. West,” she put in quickly.  “Please don’t think me ungrateful and horrid, Mr. Risk, but I don’t wish you to—to trouble about the play at all unless Mr. West promises—on paper, too—to take half the profits—if any.”

“Never!” shouted West, indignant.

“Goodness me,” said Hilda, interrupting her talk with Colin, “what on earth is the matter, Anthony?”

“Nothing, my dear,” replied her brother.  “Merely Anthony’s little way of receiving a decent business proposition.”  He turned to Kitty.  “Never mind, Miss Carstairs; we three shall have a talk together later, and—”

Sharp came into the room with a note on a salver.

“Messenger boy brought it, sir; said it was immediate,” he murmured to his master, as he presented the salver to Kitty.  “No answer, madam,” he said aloud, and retired.

Anthony West alone made any effort to sustain the conversation, but then he was the only person present to whom the incident appeared ordinary, and he, too, soon fell silent at the sight of the girl’s pallor.

At last the host said gently: “Hadn’t you better open it, Miss Carstairs?  It may be nothing so very serious after all.”

Kitty seemed to nerve herself; she even smiled faintly—as she tore away the flap.  She took out a piece of ruled paper folded once—a page torn from a note-book—opened it, and forced herself to read the two lines scrawled upon it in pencil.

Then the paper fell from her fingers, and with a little cry of pain she put up her hands and hid her face.

Hilda was the first to make a movement.  She rose and passed quickly round the table to the apparently stricken girl.

“Kitty,” she said quietly, “remember you are among friends here—friends, who will not permit any person or thing to harm you.”  She laid a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder.

The host also rose, signing to Colin and West to follow him from the room. But just then Kitty let her hands fall from her face. No longer was it pale, for the shock of fear was past, and her cheeks glowed with honest indignation.

“Mr. Risk, please don’t go away,” she said a little unsteadily.  “I don’t wish any one to go away. I’m so sorry to upset everything like this—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Risk said gently.  “As my sister has just remarked, we are your friends, and we are all ready and anxious to serve you. You really want us to remain?”

Hilda picked up the paper, and she, too, flushed as her eyes took in the pencilled words.

“The beast!” she muttered under her breath. She took West’s seat which he had vacated for her.

“This note,” she announced, “has neither address nor signature.  It has evidently been pencilled by a person under the influence of rage, illness, or—alcohol.  It asks:—’Do your new friends know where you got the money that brought you to London?’ . . .  That is all.”

Colin went ruddy, half rose, and subsided with mingled feelings—anger at the insult to Kitty, dread lest for her sake he should be forced to confess to sending her the hundred pounds, and a sudden recognition that not so long ago he had held a similar piece of paper bearing an anonymous message in pencil.

“And now,” said Kitty in a steadier voice, though she was pale again, “will you, please, tell them all you know about me, Hilda; all I have told you about myself.”

The host poured a little wine into a glass and set it before her, saying: “My dear Miss Carstairs, I want to know only one thing.  Who is the unspeakable cad who wrote that?”

“Symington!” burst from Colin’s lips.

“The gentleman who, unfortunately, has never called here,” said Risk quietly.

“Of course, it can be no other,” cried Hilda, in unwonted excitement.

Colin was on his feet.  “Mr. Risk, will you excuse—” he was beginning when Sharp entered.

“Mr. Symington,” the servant intimated, “wishes to speak with Miss Carstairs on the ’phone.”

There were blank looks until Hilda, with recovered coolness, said—

“Sharp, will you tell Mr. Symington that Miss Carstairs is afraid of contamination, even over the wire.”

“Very good, Hilda,” her brother remarked.  “Have you got it clearly, Sharp?”

“Yes, sir,” the servant answered, and calmly repeated the words.  Then he went out.

Colin bowed to the ladies, and with a curious set look on his face left the room.

Hilda glanced at her brother, but said nothing.  Kitty was feeling a little hurt, and, perhaps, a little relieved also.  Why should Colin have wanted to escape hearing her story?  On the other hand, it would, perhaps, be less trying to hear it told without his presence.

“Let’s have coffee in the study, John,” said Hilda suddenly, “and I’ll try to do what Kitty asks.  I do think you and Anthony ought to know how abominably she has been treated, especially as one of her wretched persecutors seems to be losing his head and getting to work again.”

“Personally,” said Risk, “I confess to acute curiosity.  In two minutes we shall do as you suggest, Hilda.  Meanwhile, Miss Carstairs, let us try to come to some agreement with West about the play.”

It was a tactful suggestion, for Kitty was requiring a change of thought rather badly just then.

Later, as they were passing to the study, Sharp got a word with his master in the hall.

“Very well. . . .  Did he ask for anything before he left the house?”

“A flexible cane, sir, which I chanced to be able to provide.”

Risk nodded, and looking serious, was about to follow his guests, when a thought seemed to strike him.

“Sharp, did Mr. Symington make any response to the message?”

“He did, sir.”

“What did he say?”

Sharp hesitated, “Well, sir,” he replied at last, solemnly, “I should say he contaminated the wire, sir!”

*     *     *     *     *

It was in this harassed condition, and with a still clouded intelligence, that he had obeyed the two impulses in the direction of Kitty, of which we have seen the results—so far.  And now, not so many minutes after the telephone episode, he was already cursing himself for a silly fool, and asking what madness was upon him that he should have as good as warned the girl against himself.

He lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand, took a mouthful of wine and lay back in his chair, sluggish of body, sullen of soul.  When, a moment later, he heard the door open, he swore under his breath, but did not so much as turn his head.  He anticipated a greeting as the door was shut—a bluff greeting of the “What ho” order; wherefore the words that came after a brief pause were something of a shock.

“You swine!”

He started up to see “young Hayward” standing over him, with a look in his eyes that boded anything but goodwill.

Colin was full of fury, but it was the frigid sort.

“What the deuce do you want?” said Symington at last, and his hand stole behind him.  His recent pleasure-hunt had included visits to one or two rather queer corners of London town, down by the docks.

“What you want is a thrashing,” answered Colin, “and I’m here to give it you.”

Symington’s complexion went from scarlet to grey.

Swish!  Like a flash the whangee cane smote his knuckles.  With a cry he let drop the weapon.  Colin kicked it across the room.

Hissing with wrath and pain, Symington sprang up and made a dash for the bell.  No use!  He was seized by the collar, shaken vigorously, then dragged to the table in the centre of the room, from which the dessert had not been removed.  Mercilessly he was thrown across it, his face in a dish of raisins, and in that undignified position, vainly struggling, he received a most painful chastisement.

Often afterwards Colin, whose weight and muscle were nothing exceptional, would wonder how on earth he had managed to handle successfully a heavy man like Symington; but love and hate combined with honest rage gave him, for the time being, the strength of three, and moreover his victim was flabby after a long debauch.

“That is the reply to your anonymous notes, Mr. Symington, and if you want to call the police now, pray do so.”

A waiter, mouth open, was staring from the doorway.

Symington stood up, his expression devilish.  He had a fruit knife in his hand—a frail, pretty thing, yet pointed.  He lunged at his enemy’s face.  Again the cane swished, and the knife fell to the floor.

“Gentlemen,” gasped the waiter.

“Well?” inquired Colin.  “Is it to be the police?”

“Damn you!  Get out of this!  I’ll make you sorrier than any police judge could do.”

“Very well,” said Colin, turning to the door.  “In the meantime,” he added, over his shoulder, “if I were you, I’d get the waiter to remove the raisins from your chin and left eyebrow.”  With that, perhaps the unkindest cut of all, he went out, leaving Symington almost beside himself with passion.

As for the waiter, the unfortunate creature was so tactless as to smile at the raisins, and two days later he was dismissed from the hotel service.

“Well, I guess he won’t trouble Kitty again, and I don’t see how he’s going to get at me.”

But Colin did not know Symington, or he would have, at least, qualified his confidence.  As a matter of fact, by thrashing the man he had simply turned a cad into a blackguard.  But he drove back to Aberdare Mansions feeling that he had been able to do something for his beloved after all, though she must never know of it, and he arrived there happier than he had been for months.

Risk met him in the hall with a quizzical smile.

“Found him out, I suppose, Hayward?”

“That’s for you to do, Mr. Risk,” was the blithe reply.  “I found him in, and I fancy he’ll not move far to-night, at all events.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Risk, his eyes on the cane, “you whacked the beggar!”

“To the best of my ability.”  Colin found his hand being shaken.

A couple of hours later, the night being exquisite, Colin walked home with Kitty, West escorting Hilda.

“Mr. Risk is giving you plenty to do, isn’t he?” Kitty remarked, making an effort to shake off the feeling of restraint that had come upon her on finding herself alone with Colin.

“Yes,” said Colin, who was hampered by a similar sensation.  “But he’s worth working for.  He has given me a chance that I might have sought in vain all my life.  But never mind about me, Kitty,” he went on.  “I wish very much to know what you—or rather Miss Risk—told the others while I was absent to-night.”

“I think I’d rather not talk about it,” she said, after a short pause.  “Mr. West, or Mr. Risk, will tell you, if you really want to know.”

“Kitty, why do you say that, and in such a tone?”

“Why did you go away almost as soon as I asked Hilda to tell my story?”

His earnestness overcame her doubts.

“I’m a horrid thing, Colin,” she declared self-reproachfully, “but I wanted to make sure that you did not despise me—”

“Despise you!”

“—for running away from Dunford, and for accepting the kindness of strangers as I have done.”

“What an absurd idea, Kitty! I won’t tell you how glad I was to hear you were in London and in the care of such friends.  Show that you trust me a little better by telling me how it all came about.  By the way, have you heard from Dunford since you left?”

She shook her head.  “I sent my aunt my address, and told her I was all right, but she has not answered.  Well, I’m not so surprised at that as at not hearing from Sam, the postman.  It was he who helped me to get away—”

“Very well—only you must promise not to discuss it afterwards.  It’s not a pretty story, Colin, and only in self-protection did I ask Hilda to tell it to-night.  Well, here it is.”

She told it simply and in few words, and he heard her to the end without a single interruption.  Now and then, indeed, when her voice wavered, he would have given all his future to have taken her for one moment into his arms.  The incident of the £100 brought a flush to his face, while he blessed the thought that had caused him to send her the means for escape; but the tale of her uncle’s hideous treachery turned him ghastly with wrath and pity.

“And so,” she finished, “the journey that started so miserably ended most wonderfully, and here I am with all my dreams come true”—she gave a small rueful laugh—“except one.  For I used to dream of being brave and independent and even adventurous; and now—”

“Oh, Kitty, thank God you didn’t arrive in London alone!” he exclaimed.

“Certainly,” said Colin cheerfully.  “And so now you are perfectly happy, Kitty?”

“Yes, I am!” she answered, with just a trace of defiance.  She was not going to admit that there was something lacking, and perhaps she was not quite sure what the “something” was.  And, of course, it was nothing to her that Colin, earlier in the evening, had appeared to be greatly taken with Hilda—and Hilda’s lovely eyes!

Later, he mentioned that West and he desired to take her and Hilda to a theatre on the coming Friday.  Kitty had already been to several theatres, yet, somehow, the prospect thrilled her more than it had done prior to previous visits, though her acceptance of the invitation, given subject to Hilda’s approval, was little more than polite.

They were nearly home when Colin said rather diffidently—

After a moment she replied: “No, Colin.  For that moment, at dinner, I was afraid, horribly afraid, I admit.  But I’ve got over it.  For what can the man do?”

Since last we saw them John and Rachel Corrie, apart from the conversation necessitated by business, had scarcely spoken to each other.  The man kept a sullen silence, lest in speech he might betray his real intentions; the woman, having come to mistrust in all his ways the being whom she loved more than herself, held her peace lest she should lead him into self-betrayal, for now she feared the worst so greatly that she could not face the sure knowledge thereof.  Rachel knew by this time why she had heard no more from Kitty.  Her three letters to the girl had never passed beyond the post office—she had actually and secretly witnessed her brother destroy the last—and she naturally assumed that if Kitty had written again, her letter had met a similar fate.

And at last, at a sultry midnight, such a midnight as had witnessed her dreadful deed for her brother’s sake, a vague idea drifted, from Heaven knows where, into her distracted, weary mind, and lodged there.  Ere she slept it had developed to a grim purpose, which even the searching light of morning could not weaken.

It was on the third evening following that of his castigation that Symington appeared in Dunford.  He came in response to a curt note from the postmaster: “It is time you and me had a talk.  Look sharp.”  A telegram preceded him.  For the first time since his last visit Corrie mentioned the man’s name to Rachel.

“Symington will be here ’tween eight and nine.”

“I’ll be out,” she returned calmly.

For a moment he was taken aback.  Then—“As ye please,” he said, and after a short pause added: “I expect your niece will get the shares before long.”

He did not look at her, nor did she at him as she replied—

“Very well, John.  I’ll be glad when it’s a’ settled.”

She left the house at the hour the train was due, and took the road which led to White Farm and also to the mill, a couple of miles farther on.

“What the devil do you keep on bothering me for?” he demanded the moment he was in the parlour.  “I’m going ahead as quickly as I can.  Do you want me to ruin the whole thing by rushing it.”

“No use in losing your temper,” said Corrie coldly.  “It’s a fortnight past since ye started to get a hold o’ the girl.  I want to ken what ye’ve been doing in London, besides enjoying yourself.”

“Don’t talk about enjoyment!  I tell you I’ve been busy the whole time.”

“Well, what ha’ ye done?”

Symington took out a cigar.  “Look here—what are you trying to drive me for?  What’s at the back of this cry for haste?”

“There’s a chance o’ the postman getting better.”

“Well, curse him for a nuisance, and you for a bungler!”

“Mind, I’ve got that letter!” snarled Corrie.

“You’d never use it? . . .  However, I may tell you that I’ve completed my arrangements for the capture of Miss Kitty.”

“And what may they be?”

A grey shadow came over Corrie’s face.  “Is—is it going to hurt her?” he whispered.  “I canna consent to her being hurt—seriously.”

Symington laughed shortly.  “You think I’d hurt Kitty, do you?  Sometimes I fancy you’re a bit cracked, Corrie!  Well, I must admit it’s going to be a little unpleasant, inconvenient, for her—but nothing worse.  She’s going to disappear for a time—”

“Where?”

“You’re better not to know in case you’re asked—see?”

The postmaster plucked at his lower lip.  “Maybe,” he mumbled, “maybe.”

“And young Hayward’s going to disappear likewise.”

“God!  Are ye no’ afraid? . . .  But how am I to believe ye?”

“Give me four days—a week at most.  Now, don’t ask any more questions, for I’m not going to answer them.  As I said, you’re better not to know anything.”

“Just one.  How long will it take, think ye to—to make her give in?”

“How long does it take to starve a healthy man?”

*     *     *     *     *

In the dusk Symington was nearing the farm when, from a gate in the hedge, Rachel Corrie stepped into his path.

“I want a word wi’ ye, Mr. Symington,” she said bluntly.

“Well?”

“And first I’ll tell ye that John Desna ken o’ this.”

“Go on.”  He was annoyed at the interruption, for he had much to think of before he slept that night, and he was returning to London by the early morning train.  Also he was tormented by a craving for something to drink.

“’Tis about the Zeniths,” she proceeded.

“None of your business, I should say, Miss Corrie.”

“I say different.  But I only want ye to satisfy me that ye are dealing fair with my brother—”

“How dare you insinuate—”

“No need for temper,” she went on steadily.  “John maybe wouldna like to ask ye himself, but I’m going to put a straight question, for it’s been on my mind for a while now—”

“I will!  Have ye or have ye not parted wi’ any o’ the shares?”

His indignation was well assumed.  “If you were a man—” he began.

“But I’m only a woman, and not one of the blind, trusting sort, Mr. Symington.  Still, I’m as curious as any.”

Suddenly he gave an ironic laugh.  “Very well, Miss Corrie; I don’t want you to lose any more of your beauty sleep, so I give you my word that—”

“And ye’ll let me see the certificates, Mr. Symington,” she interrupted very firmly.

For an instant he hesitated.  He might tell her that they were in his banker’s safe.  But no: better exhibit them and have done with the matter.

“If I was not aware of your affection for your brother,” he said, “I’d consider your request an insult, and refuse it point-blank.  However, you can come along to the house and be satisfied.”

He prepared for other questions, but she asked none, and presently he was showing her into the farm-house parlour, saying: “I’ll fetch them at once.”

Symington knew he was taking no small risk.  Originally the certificates, folded separately, had made a tape-tied bundle of ten, each certificate representing five hundred shares.  Now there were only nine.  But Symington took from his pocket a certificate for one hundred shares, and inserted it in the bundle.  He could not tell how familiar she might be with the documents, but he trusted that she would be satisfied with finding the number of them correct, and reckoned that if she did insist on examining them separately, the dusk would prevent her detecting the discrepancy.  So he came downstairs, whistling.

“Thank ye,” she said at once, without even touching the bundle; “I’ll be getting home now.”

For she had discovered what she wanted to know—not with her eyes, but with her ears.

“Silly old fool!” Symington remarked to himself, much relieved, as he went upstairs again.  “I needn’t go on worrying about her, anyway.”

“I’ll write to Glasgow for a price list to-night,” he thought, withdrawing the queer, stumpy key, and replacing the chintz cover, which gave the chest something of the appearance of an ottoman.  “Yes; I’ll write to-night.”  Just then his importunate thirst assailed him once more, and drove him downstairs to a cupboard in the parlour.

One morning, about a week later, John Risk on his arrival in the City, found his sister waiting in his private office.

“I’m ordered to Newcastle to-morrow, for a couple of days,” she informed him.  “What am I to do about Kitty?  Naturally, she’d imagine all sorts of things if I told her she must not leave the flat during my absence, and I can hardly afford to tell the editor I don’t—”

“You can take her with you, Hilda.  Why not make a little holiday of it, and when you’ve finished the job at Newcastle, take a week by the sea somewhere?  You’ve had no break this summer.  You’re looking a bit fagged.  Of course I’ll stand the racket.”

“Dear old thing, I don’t believe I can refuse!” she cried.

“John! how many thousands is this going to cost you?”

“None, I think.  I believe in the play.  However, that’s none of your business.  You don’t think any the less of West for taking his share?”

“No, indeed!  Besides Kitty forced him by declaring she would not have the play go on at all, if he refused.—Well, I’m off,” said Hilda rather hurriedly, and with some colour in her cheeks.

“One moment.  You haven’t been followed by that man, have you?” he inquired.

“No.  Why do you ask?  I’d have told you.”

“So you would, my dear.  Symington is in town at present, and I happen to know he has been selling more shares.”

“Oh! . . .  But, John, isn’t it time to act?”

“Very nearly, I hope.  That’s all, Hilda.  Good luck to your holiday.”

She kissed him and went out.  A slight frown crossed his forehead for a moment.  Then he pressed one of several buttons on his desk.

Colin entered.  He had a letter in his hand.

“Ah!” exclaimed Risk, “this is what was wanted!  ‘The operation on the skull has been successful,’ he read, ‘and the patient is now well enough to give you a short interview.’ . . .  Hayward, you must go North by the first train, learn all you can, and instruct him to hold his tongue for the present.”

“I can catch the 11.30 train,” said Colin, who was already acquiring the decisive ways of his friend and employer, “and may be there in time to see him to-night.  You wish me to return at once?”

“I want you to take in Dunford on your way back and get me one or two photos.  I’ll give you a note of what I require along with the camera.  But that needn’t take you more than a couple of hours.  Don’t you want to look up your people?”

“They’re all from home this month—thank you for thinking of it.  I ought to tell you that my father and I have made it up—through the post.”

Colin felt grateful, but merely returned a “Very well, Mr. Risk,” and he hastened to his own office to get through the work on hand.  The request for a sketch of Sam’s old house puzzled him, as did the photographic business, but he possessed the valuable wit for knowing when to suppress questions.

Risk immediately plunged into a small ocean of correspondence.  He had an extraordinary number of financial interests, and they really interested him apart from their finance. . . .

A secretary entered.

“Mr. Boon, of the Westminster Film Co., is here, sir.  He has an appointment with you.”

Risk glanced at the clock.  “In two minutes,” he said, returning to the correspondence, “show him in.”

Before he left he was introduced to Colin, with whom he had a few minutes’ conversation, which was probably more enlightening to himself than to the young man; and he took away with him the rude sketch of the Dunford postman’s abode.

Rather late in the evening Colin, by special permission, was sitting at Sam’s bedside.  The postman was still weak, and the nurse had warned the visitor against anything in the way of excitement, but his memory was clear enough, and there was not, after all, a great deal to be remembered.  Colin was soon in possession of the few facts worth having; they formed, at least, a valuable little appendix to Kitty’s story.  As to his assailant on the night of the fire, Sam frankly admitted that he had nothing better than suspicions to offer; yet he was convinced that the house had been deliberately set on fire, and that he had been assaulted in his weakness either by Corrie, or Symington, or both.

But Sam was not greatly interested in his own affairs.  Time enough to think of punishment and revenge when he was on his feet again, he declared.  He wanted to hear about Kitty.

“Quite right, quite right,” said Sam.  “So long as she’s in good health, and wi’ kind friends, I’m content.  And before long I’ll be getting the letter ye say she wrote me, just after she got to London.  Ye see, we couldna trust Corrie, and she would send it to Peter Hart, the shepherd, in the next postal district.”

“I’m going to tell her simply that you’ve had an accident,” said Colin, “so you may expect a new letter from her immediately. . . .  Now I see the nurse looking at me, and I suppose my time is up.  But I must tell you, from Mr. Risk, that your house will be rebuilt, and ready for you by the time you are ready for it.  Not a word, Sam!  It’s no use arguing with Mr. Risk, I know! . . .  Well, I must go.  Keep everything a secret for the present.”

Sam clung to the young man’s hand.  “Tell her,” he whispered, “to look out for Symington.  Tell her the news o’ her has done me a power o’ good.  Good luck to ye, Mr. Colin—good luck to ye both.”

Next morning he stepped from the early train at Dunford.  In order to turn aside any local curiosity, he went straight to his father’s house, and got the caretaker to give him breakfast, explaining that he had called on his way to London to collect one or two small articles from his old room.  Thereafter he strolled around with his hand-camera and secured some “souvenir snapshots,” as he put it to an interested villager.  In the course of his stroll he recorded—surreptitiously, it should be remarked—a view of the back of Corrie’s cottage, and another of the scene immediately in front of Sam’s ruined dwelling.

By noon he was in the train again, counting the miles to Newcastle.  Within half an hour of the train’s leaving Dunford, Corrie dispatched a telegram to Symington—“Left at 11.50.”

About the same hour in London, a message was flashed North to greet our traveller with a great disappointment.  He had to change at Carlisle; and as he was boarding the Newcastle train there, his heart full of Kitty, hope struggling once more against resignation, an official carrying an orange envelope came along inquiring for “a Mr. Colin Hayward.”  And presently Colin was reading Risk’s message—

“Urgent.  Return straight to London.”

There was just time to rush back to the express train he had so recently left.  Afterwards there was more than enough time for wonder and worry.

On the afternoon of the same day, which happened to be the weekly half-holiday, Rachel Corrie returned from a longish walk undertaken, as she had announced to her brother at dinner, in the hope of relieving a severe headache.  In these days it was for her a rare occurrence to leave the house at all, and a common one to have a headache, but Corrie had been too self-engrossed to be moved by surprise or sympathy.

Of late John Corrie’s appetite had been indifferent; to-night it seemed to have failed him altogether.  He sat there speechless, now and then taking a sup of tea, and never once allowing his gaze to fall on his sister—not that she, poor soul, could have met it for an instant.  Nevertheless, at last she forced herself to speak.

“Can ye no’ eat, John?”

He shook his head impatiently.  “Let me be.  I’m no’ hungry.”

“Let that be,” he growled, “or ye’ll drive me stark mad.  Peace!—no’ another word!”  He got up and strode from the room.

In his pocket was a letter, the postmark on which would have told that it had been posted in London about midnight; a letter which he had been expecting for days, consisting of one pencilled word—“Arrested”—with neither address nor signature.  And by that solitary word Corrie’s soul was racked, as between a man’s last hope and his final terror.

Alone, Rachel put her hand to her face.

“Oh God,” she murmured, “if only it had been possible. . . .  But now the candle mun be left to burn—burn to the end. . . .  Maybe—oh, surely—I’ll save him yet.”

At last—at last the sound of running and excited shouts . . . a thundering on the door below . . . the opening of the door—

“Mr. Corrie, the mill’s on fire!”

A pause that seemed an age, then her brother’s voice, harsh, yet almost calm—

“Rachel, the mill’s on fire!”

“I’m coming,” she tried to call, producing naught but a croak.

She got to the window in time to see him hastening away in the failing light.  She made no attempt to follow just then.  She lingered, crouching there behind the curtain, until the heavy silence informed her that practically the whole population of Dunford had bolted to the scene of destruction.  Then body and wits under control once more, she took the implements she had prepared, cloaked herself and set out on the road to the mill.  Not a soul was in sight.

The door was not locked.  She entered and without hesitation climbed the stair.  She had been welcome in the house in the old and happier days of Symington’s parents.  She had often seen the strong box in its original place in the sitting-room.  Doubtless it was upstairs.  She was counting on that.  If he had lately got a safe she had burned the mill to no purpose. . . .  But God would not let her be cheated so, for was it not all done for her brother’s salvation? . . .

And now she was in the apartment above the sitting-room.  The light was very dim, but she soon found what she sought.  In a moment the chintz cover was off and laid aside.  Then in a sort of splendid fury, with heavy, powerful tools, she attacked the lock, wrenching, twisting, thrusting, driving, heedless of the attendant noise.

She swept up the smallest trace of her work, closed the lid, and neatly replaced the chintz cover.  There would be no discovery till Symington himself made it.  As she left the house she glimpsed, away to the left, a smoky glow, over the hollow that hid the mill.  Without a second glance she set out for home along the still deserted road.

Having bolted the cottage door and returned the tools to their place, she sat down to examine her prize.

“The scoundrel has parted wi’ 500 shares!” she muttered after a careful recount of the certificates.  “Poor John, it was an evil day when ye let Alec Symington into this house.  But Kitty ’ll forgive ye a tenth part o’ her fortune—if she doesna, I’ll offer her every penny I possess.  Oh, John, I think I’ve saved ye; and some day I’ll confess to ye about the mill.  I’ll never regret it. . . .  But what’s this?”

“So he’s got a house at that place,” she reflected.  “Well, it’s none o’ my business.  I wonder if John kens.  Likely no. . . .  I’ll ha’ to try to put it back in the box—no! I’ll risk nothing for that scoundrel’s sake!  He can want his lease!”  She made to toss it into the fire, then drew back.  “I’ll keep it in the meantime along wi’ the shares till the time comes for telling John. . . .  The sooner they’re hid the better.”  She rose, and stood wavering.  “Oh, God, but I’m weak,” she whispered.  “Help me to win through.”

*     *     *     *     *

It was late when her brother came in, begrimed and drenched.  She had a meal all but ready for him.

“Tell me about it, John,” she said, as he came to the fire in dry garments.  “I couldna gang—couldna bear to see it.”

“Ye would ha’ seen a grand blaze,” he returned bitterly.  “There’s nothing left—new machinery and all!”

“Well, well,” she said soothingly, “it’s a fine thing an insurance policy.”

“Very fine—when ye’ve paid the premium.”

“Did I? . . .  The days o’ grace were up three weeks back, but—but I had—ower many other things to think about.”  A groan burst from him, he put his hands to his head.  “Three thousand pound gone up in three hours!”

Rachel’s mouth opened, but she was dumb.  As if frozen she stood there by the table, a plate of cut bread in her hand.

“Aye,” he went on heavily, “and I’ll take my oath it was no accident, for the place where the fire started—”

With a strangled cry the woman tottered and fell crashing across the table.

Ghastly, Corrie sprang to her assistance.  Stumblingly he carried her to his chair by the hearth.  She was not unconscious; her collapse had been mainly physical.  Blood was dropping from a gash in her wrist.

“Dinna heed me,” she murmured; “I’ll be all right in a minute, John.”

He fetched water and cloths, knelt, washed the wound and bandaged it awkwardly yet with some tenderness.  Slow tears ran down her cheeks.

“Am I hurting ye, Rachel?” he asked.

He spoke again.  “I shouldna ha’ told ye so quick about the insurance.  Dinna keep thinking on it.”  Then with obviously a great effort—“Ye’ve been a good sister to me, Rachel.  I—I wish I had been a better brother.”

His words left her speechless.  What had come to him?

He answered the unspoken question.

“Money’s no everything, after all,” he said hoarsely, shamefacedly.  “When I saw ye fall I thought ye were killed—thought I had killed ye—wi’ ma tongue.  And—and just for an instant I saw myself without ye—alone—in this house—in this place—in the whole world.  I had never thought o’ it that way before.”  He sighed, and got to his feet.  “We’ll say no more about it, Rachel, but I’ll try to treat ye better from now.”  He cleared his throat, and averting his gaze said: “I wish I had never set eyes on Symington.”

Rachel restrained herself then, not for her own sake, but for his.  For his own safety he must not know her secret a moment before the time was ripe.  Moreover, though his kind words had moved her deeply, they had not healed her wounded trust in him.

“I doubt it.”  He sighed again heavily.  “But things mun take their course now. . . .  Ye’d better gang to your bed, or ye’ll be useless in the morning, and I’ve got to be early at the mill.  I’ll get my supper myself.”

She went without a word.

Corrie sank into his chair.

“Almighty!” he moaned to himself, “what devil started me speculating on the Stock Exchange? . . .  Gone, the savings o’ a lifetime! . . .  And now the mill that would ha’ sold for enough to save me and maybe my savings likewise—in ashes—just ashes!  It’s ruin, black ruin, unless Symington does all he’s promised. . . .  And the postman’s getting better! . . .  God! I’d write to Kitty this night, if it wasna too late—but now I’m damned in her eyes for ever and ever!”

*     *     *     *     *

Small wonder if it were indeed so!

In the study at Aberdare Mansions, Colin, very pale, sat staring at a sheet of typewritten paper, which Risk had put into his hand, saying—

“My sister, as I’ve already explained, found this on her return to the flat.  Steady, now!”

“Dear Hilda,—

“A detective has come to arrest me.  He says it’s the Post Office.  I’m not a bit afraid, only sorry to trouble you so.  Sam will see me through.  Good-bye for a little while.

“Kitty.”