Kitty Carstairs

Kitty was not a little excited at the prospect of her trip with Hilda, though at first her pride had raised a difficulty, and she had begged to be allowed to pay her own expenses.

“Very well,” Hilda had promptly rejoined, “if you wish to hurt my brother’s feelings, not to mention mine, I can’t prevent you.  Besides, you will spoil my holiday—”

“But, Hilda, I can’t be always taking—”

“You can have your revenge when the play is making your fortune.”

“I wonder if it will. . . .  Anyway, I’m glad Mr. West is going to be reasonable, aren’t you?”

“Let’s go out and buy things for our holiday,” Hilda had said, rather hurriedly.  “We have no time to waste to-day.  It’s a nuisance, but I’m afraid I shall have to go to the office for an hour to-night, so that I may leave things in shape.”

“What—the typing?”

“All the wonderful things that have happened to me lately.  Why, it’s not a month since that horrible time in Dunford.  I only wish for one thing—to hear from Sam, the postman.  I can’t understand his not writing.”

“Possibly, Mr. Hayward, who has gone to Scotland, my brother’s note tells me, will have news.  I am wiring him to take tea with us at Newcastle to-morrow afternoon.”

“Oh!”

“And, naturally, I want to look my best!  So come along to the shops at once!  By the way, we have dinner early to-night—Matilda’s evening at the picture house.”

*     *     *     *     *

It was now shortly after eight.  Hilda had not been long gone to the office, after promising to return by ten and wishing, secretly, that she had asked Matilda to postpone her outing.  But her casual suggestion in that direction had been scoffed at by Kitty; and to have carried it further would only have made the girl uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, she did start when a bell in the distance purred suddenly.  “Silly!” she called herself the next moment.  It was just the hour for the postman, and probably he had a packet that would not go into the letter-box.  She went at once to the door.

A thick-set man of middle age, heavily moustached, but not unpleasantly featured, in dark tweeds and bowler hat, said—

“You are Miss Kitty Carstairs.”

Before she could answer, he was standing beside her and the door was closed.

“I have something to say to you, Miss Carstairs,” he proceeded in a quiet voice.  “I think you ought to sit down to hear it.”

For some seconds the girl was incapable of speech and action.  But her mind was working, and it perceived that she gained no advantage by remaining in the confined space of the little passage.  In silence she led the way to the sitting-room.

His reply was certainly unexpected.

“I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest.  I have to warn you that anything you may say now may be used against you later.”

Kitty went white, but it was with anger.  “Who,” she demanded at last, “has dared to do such a thing?  Who desires my arrest?”

“The warrant is issued at the instance of the Postmaster-General—”

“Ah! . . .  I see! I suppose—”

“Miss Carstairs.  I warn you again—”

“Does all this mean that I have got to go with you—now—to the police office?”  To herself she was saying: “Don’t be a coward!  You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“It is my duty to take you there,” the man answered, “and I hope you will not make it harder for me than you can help.”

His respectful tone stayed the sinking of her heart.

“Can’t I send a message to a friend?” she asked.

“Will you tell me—” she began.

“I can answer no more questions.”

Apparently there was nothing for it but to submit.  She sat down, scribbled the brief note that we have seen, and rose.

“I am going to my room.”

He followed her as far as the outer door, where he mounted guard, as it were.

Within five minutes she rejoined him, dressed for out of doors, a small travelling bag in her hand.

“Let me get it over,” she said.

“You are a brave young lady,” he remarked.  “Allow me.”  He relieved her of the bag.  “A very brave young lady.”

“I’ve done nothing to make me afraid.”

With his fingers on the door handle, he said—

“Will you give me your word to—to come with me quietly?”

He opened the door and stood aside for her to pass out.  Now there was no doubt about his nervousness; he was paler than she.

She went steadily before him down the narrow wooden stairway.  On the landing he overtook her, and they continued their descent on the broader stone steps, passing business offices closed for the night.

At the entrance a plain-looking motor brougham was waiting.

“I hope you will remember, Miss Carstairs,” he whispered, “that I used no harshness.”

“I will—thank you.  Have we far to go?”

“It’s a longish drive.”

As they crossed the pavement Kitty thought it strange that no one stared, then almost laughed at the stupidity of the notion.  Why should any one stare?  Truly the man was behaving very nicely.

He opened the door, followed her into the brougham, and closed it with a bang.  The brougham immediately rolled away.  The man took the narrow seat opposite, and she heard him draw a long breath.

Time passed ere she recovered her wits and courage.  Her aunt knew the truth, and Kitty could not believe that Rachel Corrie, even for her brother’s sake, would fall to perjury.  And there was Mr. Risk, and Hilda, and Mr. West, and—Colin!  Oh, with such friends, why should she be afraid?  No doubt she was in for a most disagreeable ordeal; but it was bound to end in her complete triumph. . . .  Well, she was having an adventure, and no mistake!  Adventures!—how lightly she had uttered the word in the past to Colin!  How gently he had treated her foolish talk!  Her mind went back to that night in the little wood at Dunford, when she had let him kiss her.  Then his prospects and hers had been simply blank.  Now . . . but what had made her allow him to kiss her?

“Are we nearly there?” she asked her guardian.

He cleared his throat.  “Still a bit to go,” he said, and gave a long, vague explanation, which she could not follow, as to police districts and other matters.  “My work ends,” he concluded, “when I have handed you over to the—the chief inspector.”

She thought of asking him what the chief inspector was like, and whether she would have to go to Scotland, but suddenly she felt too tired to talk.  The reaction had come, and she lay back exhaustedly, with the tears not far away.  She was no longer in a hurry to reach the destination.

The man drew down the blinds.  Soon the speed of the brougham was increased; it seemed to be travelling over a different sort of road.  There were occasional ruts that suggested the country.

At the end of what seemed a very long, yet too short period, the man said—

“We are practically there now.”  And under his breath he added: “Thank God!”

The brougham lurched round a corner; presently its pace slackened.

“Will you get out, please?” he said.  His voice had become husky and fearful.

She obeyed and looked about her.

“But surely this is not—”

Speech failed as the man, with a whispered “Forgive,” sprang into the brougham, which immediately started.

“Oh, hell!” groaned the man, “to think I’ve lived to be driven to this for the sake of twenty pounds!”

Kitty found herself standing on the earthen foot-walk of a badly-lighted road, in front of an iron gate, open, with a shrub-bordered path leading to a large, dark house.  That was all she had grasped when some one sprang upon her, a heavy shawl was thrown over her head and face, and—her senses failed.

*     *     *     *     *

Near the centre of the room was a round table covered with a new cloth and decorated with two pairs of silver flower-vases containing carnations.  A middle-aged woman was engaged in putting the finishing touches to a meal consisting of a cold chicken, sliced ham, salad, bread and butter, and so forth, also a small bottle of champagne and a syphon of lemonade.

Kitty sat up, but was still too dazed to notice the incongruities.  She saw only a woman’s back and the white walls.

“Have they put me in prison?” she asked faintly.

The woman turned a red, expressionless face, and answered—

“Maybe, Miss.  But your supper’s ready.  Kindly ring if you want anything.”

“Yes, Miss.  To-morrow, maybe.  Your bed’s ready when you want it.”

She went out.

Kitty pressed her palms to her temples, and with eyes closed remained motionless for several minutes.  Then, with a sigh, she took courage to look about her.

It was well that she had a healthy heart, for at the realization of her surroundings a weakly one must surely have stopped.

In the study Colin rose to his feet, a prey to distress and wrath.  Kitty’s message fluttered in his hand.

“I had better take the midnight train,” he said, striving for control.

“To what end?” Risk gently asked, while Hilda, who looked worn-out, took a step forward as if to speak.

“To compel that blackguard Corrie—”

“Please sit down again, Hayward,” Risk said, enforcing his words with a mild pressure.  “As far as we can see it at the moment, Corrie had no direct hand in the outrage—”

“He has got the Post Office authorities to act—”

“The post office people had nothing to do with it.  Pull yourself together, man!  I’m going to give you a shock. . .  You tell him, Hilda.”

Colin got a grip on himself.  “Symington, of course,” he said, steadying his voice.

“Oh, of course!” she assented bitterly.  “And I went out and left her alone!”

“At the same time,” said Risk, “Symington did not move from his hotel after eight o’clock last night, and he went North by the mail train at five this morning.  That does not prove his innocence; on the other hand, it does not help to prove the other thing.”

“You have set the police to work?” said Colin sharply.  At that moment he hated Risk.  Why on earth had not the man held up Symington the moment he doubted the latter’s right to the Zeniths?  Why had he insisted on making a “game” of it all? . . .  But the feeling passed.  He knew too well that Risk had been as sincerely anxious to shield Kitty from anything sordid and ugly as he had been eager to serve her material interests.

Colin thought for a moment.  “Knowing what we do,” he said, “we don’t need to look far for a motive on Symington’s part.  The Zeniths alone—”

“Kitty will never give in,” cried Hilda.  “He’ll never force her to marry him.”

“Good God!” groaned Colin, “to think of her being in that scoundrel’s power!”

Risk laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Blame me, if you must, Hayward,” he said quietly, “but don’t give way to despair.”  After a slight pause he added: “Give me four days.”

“You have a clue?”

“Not quite—only the means, I hope, of obtaining one.  But don’t ask me questions.  My plan may be unnecessary after all.  We may perhaps find the way without it.”

“But, Mr. Risk, can’t you put your plan into operation at once?”

“You will trust my brother, won’t you?” said Hilda softly, and next moment Colin was silently wringing Risk’s hand.  Somehow, he could not doubt this man.

“And what can I do?” he asked presently.

“Though it may seem out of place, I want you now to tell me the results of your journey.  Also let me have the films you exposed.  By the way,” Risk went on, “West has got a week’s leave, and is going to spend a few days in the neighbourhood of Dunford.  He’s unknown there, and another flying visit from you might seem more than odd to some people—besides, I want you here.  Only, I’d like you to see West before he starts by the midnight train—you may be able to give him some hints about the district, and so on.  Therefore, we’ll get on with our talk, and you can be over at Euston soon after 11.30.  He expects you.  He would have come here, but he had an appointment with the manager of the Planet Theatre—”

“You see,” put in Hilda, “we are so sure of having Kitty with us again, almost immediately, that the play is going forward as if nothing had happened.”

Though he could not have stated why, he was feeling a little less cheerless when he left Aberdare Mansions for the meeting with West.  He was noting in his mind certain suggestions which he thought might be of use to his friend, and absentmindedly looking out for a taxi-cab, when one appeared and came to the pavement in response to his signal.

“Euston,” he said and got in.

But as he was about to draw to the door, a hand was laid on it and a voice requested the driver to “Hold on.”

“Excuse me,” continued the voice, which belonged to a shabby, genteel, sharp-featured young man, “but I think you are Mr. Colin Hayward.”  An uncleanly hand presented an envelope.

“What’s this?” muttered Colin, then seized it with a start.  It was the covering of a note he had sent Kitty a week ago.  “Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“But look here,” cried Colin, his heart thumping, “there’s no message written here!  Have you lost—”

“The lady said she had nothing to write with, but she said you would surely understand and come quick.”

Colin drew a long breath.  “Where is—the barred window?”

“Gimme the sovereign, please, and I’ll show you.  It’s not far.”

“I’ll give you five sovereigns when you’ve shown me!” said Colin.  “Tell the man where to go and get inside.”

He had not forgotten about West, and Risk was still in his mind, but they suddenly ceased to matter.

“How far?” he inquired, as the cab started.

“About ten minutes from here.”

“What sort of place is it?”

“That’ll do.  Look here, I may require your help.”

“Welcome, sir—when I’ve touched that fiver.”

“Take it now.”  A bank-note rustled.

“You’re a real gentleman!  Thank ’ee, sir!”

The cab stopped at a corner.  The guide got out and walked slowly down a narrow pavement, in front of houses that still wore an air of respectability, dingy indeed, and decaying, but not to be wholly suppressed.  The long street was indifferently lighted and void of traffic.

Colin paid the driver and followed.  By arrangement he did not overtake his guide, but watched him for a signal.

They were half-way down the street when the leader threw out his left arm.  Colin marked the position; and on reaching it found a gateless space in the railing leading to a steep and narrow flight of steps.  He paused for a moment, noted the second low window on his right, which showed a very faint glimmer behind its bars and blind, looked again to make sure that his guide had halted within call, as agreed, and with a wave of his hand, and grasping his stick, began cautiously to descend into the darkness.  A moment later he was tapping discreetly on the window, and then—

*     *     *     *     *

At five minutes before midnight Anthony West rushed from the train to a telephone box and rang up Risk.

“Colin hasn’t turned up,” he said, without preamble.

For the first time Miss Risk heard her brother swear.  But he did it without losing his calmness.

“Then you must go on, Anthony, and carry out the programme as well as you can,” he replied.  “You must use your own discretion a little more; that’s all.  Don’t lose your train.  Accidents will happen.  Good luck to you.”

He hung up the receiver, and turned to his sister, his face expressing grave concern.

“Hayward has not arrived at Euston.  Of course, he may have met with an accident—but now I could almost bet that Symington did not really go North this morning—or rather, he turned back before he had gone far.  I ought to have given the beggar credit for more cunning.”

“There may be several reasons.  Perhaps I ought to tell you where Hayward disappeared that night you and Miss Carstairs were dining here.  He went to Symington’s hotel, and gave the rascal a sound thrashing—”

“Oh, splendid!”

“Yes, but indiscreet.”  He sighed.  “I don’t like it.  Cad as he is, I could almost trust Symington not to maltreat the girl, but. . . .”  He returned to the telephone and rang up a police station on the route that a cab would naturally take to Euston.

“But he would never dare,” began Hilda, and stopped short, remembering Symington’s face as she had seen it that night in the train.  Cruel—that was the word—the face of a man who would inflict torture to gain his end.

Risk had hit on the truth, Symington had not gone far North that morning.  As a matter of fact he had left the train at Rugby, entered a powerful motor-car, and came South again—not to the Kingsway Grand Hotel, but to a rather dilapidated mansion situated at 336 Lester Road, Richmond.

*     *     *     *     *

But it was only a tourist who entered.  Corrie’s whole being bounded up in relief—only to drop sickeningly at the stranger’s first words—

“I wish to see Miss Kitty Carstairs.”

The woman with the red, expressionless face put her head into Kitty’s prison and said—“I’ve to tell ye that he’ll be coming to see you in five minutes from now.”  Without waiting for a response she closed the door and shot the bolt.

Kitty was seated on the couch with a book in her hand.  She had actually managed to read a little, though it is highly probable that she could not have told very clearly what the pages had been about.  Yet the fact that she had been able to fix her attention on a mere story for the space of a couple of hours proved that she had regained a fair command over her wits, and recovered at least something of her courage.  At all events, of the panic of twenty-four hours ago little trace remained.  She was pale, but it was the pallor of anxiety, not terror; and now, at the woman’s announcement, the apprehension in her fine eyes was counterbalanced by a determined firming of her pretty, sensitive mouth.

It was past midnight, but she felt no weariness, for she had slept through the afternoon.  She was, in fact, feeling as well as ever she had felt.  Just after the first horrid realization of her situation she had made up her mind to starve rather than accept of his hospitality; but soon she had perceived the absurdity of such a course.

“For goodness’ sake, be as sensible as you can,” she commanded herself.  “You’ve got to keep fit and healthy, for you don’t know what you may have to do with your strength.  And the food is of the best, perfectly cooked and beautifully served.  So don’t try to pose as a persecuted heroine on the stage.  You’ve been fearfully lucky, and this is only going to be a nasty little episode, which you’ll laugh at before long!”

All the same, she had a breakdown or two in spite of her brave words, and the time had passed very, very slowly.  Now as she heard his step at the door, she moved herself to play a part.

“I am sorry I could not come to see you sooner, Kitty,” he said, halting by the flower-decorated table, and resting his hand on the back of a chair.  “This room,” he went on, “is not what I would have chosen for your reception, but it was the best I could do in the time.  I have a fine house upstairs being prepared for—us.  Still, I hope you have been fairly comfortable.  You have only to ask for anything you want.”  He paused, watching her.

Her eyes had never left the book; she appeared oblivious of his presence.

“Kitty,” he said, “will you kindly tell me if there is anything I can do.”

“You can go away,” she answered quietly, without moving.

He had prepared himself for an unkind reception.  “There is something you must hear before I go,” he said.  “And, Kitty, don’t trouble to try to make me lose my temper, because I’m not going to oblige you in that way.  In any other way, you have only to ask.”

“Then if you must talk, please leave my name out.”

She lowered it, her finger at the place, and faced him.

“Well?”

“Have you no question to ask me?”

“None.”

“You are great!” he exclaimed.  “But I have a question to ask.”

She lifted her hand to her mouth and gave a little yawn.  His colour deepened, but he spoke calmly enough.

“How soon will you marry me, Kitty?”

There was cruelty in her voice.  “Mr. Symington, how far do you intend to go with this idiotic business?”  She threw a significant glance around the room.  “It must have cost you a good deal of money so far—and all for nothing!”

He winced, but kept himself in hand.

“How soon will you marry me?”

“You know I will never marry you.”  She made to resume her book.

“I know that you shall!”  He moved quickly and stood over her.  “Don’t you see that you are in my power?”

“I’m under lock and key, if that’s what you mean.”

“Stop!”

“You must hear me!  I’m a rich man, though hardly anybody knows it.  I can offer you a splendid life—give you things you’ve never dreamed of, take you abroad, make you a home wherever you desire. . . .  Kitty, I confess I’ve done lots to be ashamed of in my time, but I swear I’ll make you a good husband—”

“Oh, do stop!” she said, her calm broken.  “How can you—how dare you—talk so after all you have done—the abominable things you have done to me? . . .  Rich?  What should I care if you had all the money in the world?  Why, I shouldn’t care enough to ask how you had got it—”

His hand fell on her shoulder.  “Be careful,” he said in tense tones.  “For as surely as I am touching you now you are going to marry me!”

“Well?”  It was almost a sneer.  Next moment he said: “Don’t be afraid, Kitty.  I’m not that sort.  You—you’re sacred. . . .  But you do not leave this place until we go out of it together to be married.  Don’t think you can escape, and don’t imagine it will be so very long till you give in.  Your friends may find their way here some day, but they won’t be in time.  Afterwards—what will your friends matter?  You’ll be my wife, and no one shall dare come between us!”

“You are mad!” she exclaimed, clinging to her courage.  “For your own sake give up this crazy notion.  Otherwise you’ll be dreadfully punished!”

With a short laugh he moved away a few paces, then faced her again.

“You deliberately won’t understand my love for you, Kitty, and you don’t understand my power—as yet.  For your own sake, and another’s, I beg you once more to give in without forcing me to use—”

With difficulty he restrained his passion.

“Very well,” he said a little thickly.  “I’m sorry, but you force me on the course I would have avoided if possible.”  Softly he cleared his throat.  “Now I’ll explain.  A little while ago I received a telephone message to the effect that . . . ah!” he exclaimed.  An electric bell had sounded in the distance.  “Let us wait.”  He smiled as he took out his cigarette case, but the fingers that presently held the match were not much steadier than hers.  “Listen, listen!” he muttered.

Suddenly Symington gave an odd, triumphant laugh, saying—

“My second prisoner has arrived!”

Involuntarily the girl lifted her eyes.

“For the last time, Kitty, will you give me your word that you will marry me as soon as I can get—”

She sprang to her feet.  “You miserable fool,” she cried, “I’d rather be dead!”

He grinned.  “The more you hurt me, the more I love you!  It’s no use fighting me, Kitty.  I’m going to win,” he declared, “for you’re bound to give in.  Why?  Because my second prisoner shall not get so much as a crust until you give me your word!  Remember, you forced me to it.”  He swung round to the door.

“You coward,” she gasped, “who is your second prisoner?”

Without answering he went out.  It was as though her wall of defence had suddenly crumbled into ruins.

On the third evening following that of Kitty’s disappearance, Risk was reading a letter which the last post had just brought him.  The letter was from Anthony West, and the important part of it ran as follows:—

*     *     *     *     *

Risk laid the letter on the table, placed the snapshots in an envelope, directed it, and rang for his man.

“Sharp, take a taxi and deliver this to Mr. Boon.  Say I’m sorry it comes a little late, but that he must get his men to work harder.  Tell him to spare neither men nor money.  There must be no failure to-night.  I am going out presently.  If I’m late, don’t wait up.  Pack my bag for one night; include both my revolvers.  Call me at eight; breakfast at nine; and a taxi for nine-thirty.”

An hour later Risk was at the flat in Long Acre.

“This won’t do, Hilda,” he said kindly.  “You’re not going to help matters by breaking down.  Have you been out to-day?”

“No.  I feel now that I daren’t leave the flat in case she should come back—perhaps with that beast after her—poor little soul.  Oh, John, I sometimes think it was all my fault.  I should not have left her alone that night—”

“Nonsense!  If it comes to that, I am to blame, for I might have foreseen. . . .  But you’ll soon have her with you again, Hilda!”

He gave her West’s letter, saying: “You can look at it afterwards.  No; I can’t say I have news, but in a few hours I shall be ready to act.  That wretched Corrie shall tell me where his niece and Hayward are.”

“Are you sure?”  All at once she put her hands on his shoulders, and looked searchingly into his face.  “Oh, John,” she whispered, “you can’t hide it—you’re afraid of something!”

“Yes,” he said at last with sudden weariness, “I’m afraid.”  Next moment he drew himself up.  “But that’s because, like you, I’m tired out.  A few hours’ sleep will make all the difference to both of us.  Won’t you come back with me and stay the night?  I hate leaving you here.”

She shook her head.  “I imagine if she came in the middle of the night—”

“Try not to imagine things, my dear.  And I’ll just spend the night here.  This couch will do.  Ask your maid to knock me up at seven.  And go straight off to bed yourself.  How’s that?”

“Oh, you good brother!” she cried softly.  “I was wondering how I was going to get through another night alone!”

Soon she retired, a little more hopeful, and ere long was in a sleep of sheer exhaustion.

At last he tore himself from the night and his sorry dreams, and lay down, not to sleep, but grimly to rehearse, in minutest detail, all that he had planned for the morrow.  And every now and then he was interrupted by a Dread.

*     *     *     *     *

“Nothing for it,” he thought, “but to travel to-morrow night, after. . .  Unless—why, the thing might be done to-night!  No, no!  Steady!  Don’t be a fool and spoil everything by rushing it!  If her mind is not sufficiently prepared, and if he doesn’t look sufficiently—”  Breaking off, he rang the bell at the side of the fireplace.

The woman with the red, expressionless face answered the summons.

“How is the lady now?” he asked curtly.

“Mind your own business, and clear out.  Send your man to me.”

“No offence intended, but I doubt she hasn’t eaten a bite to-day,” said the woman, and went out.  Her humanity was not equal to the grand wages she was getting.

Symington sighed, took a drink and muttered: “Poor Kitty!  Perhaps we may get it over to-night, after all.”

A huge lout of a man, with a red beard and a bald head, shuffled in.

“Well, how is he now?”

“Not much change.  Looking peaked a bit.  But he made a joke when he said good night.  Expect he’ll feel a goodish bit worse by to-morrow.”

Symington considered.  “When you go downstairs,” he said at last, “you will take away the water and give him none to-morrow.”

“What?  No water, Mr. Granton?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, but surely that’s a bit—”

“Are you going to obey or not?”

The man lifted his shoulders.  “All right, Mr. Granton, it’s no affair of mine.  Only—”

The man shuffled away.  He had an ugly past known to his employer.

Symington cursed under his breath.  “No good for to-night.  Poor Kitty—it’s a pity, but I can’t help it.  Well, to-morrow night ought to settle it, and if not, I can wait. . . .  But I might have gone North to-night, lifted the stuff, and got back here under twenty-four hours.  Why the blazes didn’t I think of that?”  His eyes roved as if in search of an answer, and lighted on the decanter.  He glowered at it, and a flush, almost purple, overran his countenance.  “Damn you,” he suddenly shouted, “it was you that kept me!”  And, snatching it from the table, he hurled it across the room so that it burst into fragments against the wall.  There was a breathless pause till he asked in a frightened whisper, “What the devil made me do that . . . made me do that?”  He went to bed without finishing the drink in the tumbler.

Kitty was undoubtedly nearing the limit of human endurance.  Threats and offers of bribes had alike failed to move the red-faced woman; not one out of a hundred questions had she answered save by the formula, “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Miss,” or, “You’ll have to ask himself about that.”

And yet Kitty Carstairs was not at the very end of her wits.  One thing she had in her power to do.  She could starve herself!  Yesterday she had scarcely touched food; to-day she had not broken her fast.  The tempting meals had gone out of the room as they had been brought in.  There on the table, with its mocking carnations, was a silver tray bearing sundry delicacies, exquisitely served, which the woman had left on her last visit for the night.  It taxed the girl’s powers of resistance, but her spirit conquered her flesh.

“God, hear me,” she whispered; “let me not eat till I am convinced that Colin has had food.”  She was feeling weak and somewhat faint, but the sickly headache had abated, and her mind was very clear.

“I will try once more,” she told herself.  “I will pretend to be ill, and that may bring him.  Then I will show him I am determined to starve.  I shouldn’t be much use to him dead!”

Then Symington entered.  He had been keeping himself firmly in hand all day; he had an exhausted look, and was rather pale.

Without preface he exclaimed in hurt tones: “Kitty, what’s wrong with the food?”

“Is your other prisoner getting the same?” she asked quietly, approaching the table.

His laugh was lost in a crash.

Kitty had lifted the tray and flung it at his feet.

“There’s your rubbish!” she panted, catching hold of a chair-back.  “You can’t beat me!”

“By God!” he exclaimed furious, then restrained himself.  “You can’t keep it up, Kitty, my dear.  One day of real hunger is nothing to brag about.  Wait till you see my other prisoner.  I’m going to take you there now.  He has had three days of it—and no water since yesterday.  He’ll advise you not to be foolish.”

“You beast!”

He winced, but merely said, “Come!”

“You are a great fool,” she said.  “Can’t you understand that any decent man would advise me to commit suicide rather than marry you?”

“Be silent!”  His fingers crushed her flesh.

He led her along a passage lit by electricity.  A couple of windows, she noticed, were boarded over with metal-lined wood.  They passed a couple of doors similarly strengthened and with stout bolts apparently new.  They turned a corner and stopped.  The topmost third of the door in front of them had been cut away, and the opening fitted with slim upright steel bars.

“Look in,” said Symington.

Kitty saw a chamber which might have served as a storeroom in the past.  The shelving had been removed; the walls were torn and filthy.  A table, a chair, and an ancient sofa constituted the furnishings.  A single light hung from the ceiling.

On the sofa lay a young man, the state of whose raiment suggested a very long journey without a dressing-case.  His face was grey and pinched; his hands made vague, nervous movements.

“Oh, Colin!” she cried.

“Why, it’s Kitty!” he said, with a laugh that died abruptly.  “I’d forgotten,” he muttered.

A short pause, then—“So we’re both prisoners.  But he won’t starve you, Kitty.  Well, I hope our jailer is enjoying himself while it lasts.  Oh, you’re there, Symington!  Kitty, has he told you about the thrashing I gave him the other night?”

Symington turned away with a badly suppressed snarl.

“Oh, did you, Colin?  Thank you, thank you!  But, Colin, what am I to do?  He’s starving you, and says he’ll give you nothing till I promise to marry him.”

“Really!  What a gentleman he is!  Of course you’ll marry him!”

“Come!” said Symington roughly.

Kitty held on to the bars.  “Colin, I’m starving myself—”

“No, no!  For God’s sake, Kitty—”  Colin rose, but staggered.  “I’ll pull through.  And don’t you be afraid.  It’s only for a little longer,” he said, and got to the door.  “Let me touch your hand, Kitty, and I’ll pull through.”

“Let go!” Symington said savagely, “or—”

Beside himself, Symington tore her from the door inside which Colin had fallen.  As he left her in her own room he said—

“You’ll feel and think differently to-morrow.  I shan’t see you till then.  Going now to Dunford.  But before I leave I’ll supply our friend with plenty of water—well salted.”

The passage of a motor-car through Dunford in the night-time was too common a happening to disturb sleepers or excite the curiosity of a wakeful person.  To-night John Corrie was wakeful, as he so often was till long after midnight, and it is probable that he was not aware of the big car’s approach till it stopped at his own door.  Being a dealer in motor-spirit, he at once perceived a reason for the stoppage.  More than once in the last few years he had been called in similar wise to the receipt of custom, though never quite so late as this.  On the last occasion he had, without opening the door, curtly refused supplies.  Nowadays, however, he could not afford to turn money away at any hour of the twenty-four.  So in shirt, trousers, and slippers he was into the shop almost as soon as the expected knock fell.  Still, it was better to make certain before opening.

“What do ye want?” he called, hand on key.

He opened . . . and next moment his arms were behind him while steel clicked on his wrists.

“A single sound by way of alarm, John Corrie,” said a quiet, cold voice, “and you’re a ruined man.  We are not after your money, but we’re going to have the whole precious truth out of you.”

The speaker, as the half-fainting Corrie perceived in the light of a portable lamp, which some one had placed on the counter, was accompanied by three men, two of them in the garb of mechanics.  The third he recognized as the person recently inquiring about Kitty.

“What do ye want wi’ me?” he whimpered.

“Where is your sister?” asked Risk.

“In her bed.  She’s ill.”

“Then we shall do nothing to disturb her, and you had better follow our example.  West, find a chair, and put him on it—over at the door.”  He indicated the exit to the dwelling-house.

At last, with a show of courage, Corrie demanded: “What daft-like performance is this?  A magic lantern—”

Risk came quickly behind him.  “We’re going to show you a few pictures, Corrie,” he said pleasantly, “and afterwards we shall be glad to hear how they strike you.  Meantime I’m going to gag you—keep still, it won’t hurt.”

At the end of ten minutes one of the men murmured, “All ready, sir,” to which Risk replied, “Wait till I give the word,” and stationed himself where he could watch every movement on Corrie’s part.  The lamp was put out, but through the blinded windows a little moonlight filtered, giving a ghostly touch to the man in the chair.

“Number one,” said Risk softly.

The screen was illuminated.  Upon it appeared a face, that of the late Hugh Carstairs.  A glimpse and it was gone.  Corrie gave a jerk.

“Two,” muttered Risk, and Kitty Carstairs smiled and disappeared.

“Three.”  A man’s visage with an uncertain grin—Symington.

“Six.”  Behold! Sam, the postman, holding a copy of the Western Weekly in one hand and staring at a letter in the other.  Again Corrie gave a jerk.

“Seven.”  A five-pound note of the National Bank of Scotland.

“Eight.”  A rear view of Corrie’s cottage, a ladder against the ivy, and a man of Corrie’s build reaching into an open window.  And then there was a pause.

“Now,” said Risk, “we are going to have a little cinema entertainment, a scene from a drama of real life which I believe would interest the public, not to mention the police.”

As he spoke the door from the dwelling-house was opened a few inches, silently, unobserved.

“Go ahead,” said Risk.

The prisoner, breaking from West’s detaining hold, pitched forward to the floor, and grovelled.

“What are ye doing to my brother?”  The harsh voice of a woman startled them all.

Gaunt, ghostly, Rachel Corrie strode forward and halted beside the miserable creature whom she loved.

“Pack o’ lies!” she cried.  “It was me that set fire to the house; it was me that stole the Zeniths, and sold them to Symington; but I’ve got them back, all but one certificate.  Ye cowards! what mean ye by treating an old man—”  She broke off, fell on her knees and whispered: “John, it’s all right.  Ye’re safe, dearie, quite safe.”

Risk, who had sent the wondering mechanics outside, turned the key and came over to the group.  He stooped and unlocked the handcuffs, unfastened the gag.

The woman got to her feet and began to chafe her brother’s hands.

“Listen,” she said in a low voice, “promise—swear—that he’ll never be troubled again, and I’ll put in your hands the nine certificates—”

“I’m afraid we want even more than that, Miss Corrie,” said Risk.

“What do ye want?  Money for the other?  Well—”

“A full account of your brother’s bargains with Symington.”

“I can give ye that, too—if ye promise.”

“And we must know at once where your niece is—where Symington has hidden her.”

“God!”  Rachel’s jaw dropped.  “Hidden her?” she gasped after a moment.  Suddenly she shook her brother, not harshly.  “John, what’s this they’re saying?  Kitty hid away by Symington!  Speak, man!—oh, but surely ye ken nothing about such a black business! . . .  Yet speak, John!  Where’s Kitty?”

“To save yourself from penal servitude, Corrie,” said Risk solemnly, “tell me where she is.”

Corrie groaned and hopelessly answered—

“Before God, I dinna ken.”

There was a grievous silence.  At last West spoke.

“I suppose, Miss Corrie, you never heard of Symington having another address than White Farm—of late, I mean.”

Rachel started.  “Wait!” she exclaimed.  “Can I trust ye no to hurt him?”

They assured her, and she ran unsteadily into the dwelling-house.  During her absence Corrie made one remark.  It was characteristic.

“The mill was na insured.  I’m completely ruined.”

Rachel returned.  “See!”  She handed him the folded paper she had inadvertently taken from Symington’s strong box.  “And take the Zeniths,” she added.  “Oh, the curse they’ve brought to this house.”

“Ye would trust us!” gasped the woman.

Risk just glanced at the abject Corrie.  “I believe it is what Miss Carstairs would do herself,” he said, and added, with a faint smile: “I’ve got a good sister, too.  Well, you shan’t be further disturbed.  Those things”—he indicated the screen and apparatus—“can be put aside, and I’ll have them taken away later on.  Come, West.  There’s not a moment to lose.”

They entered the car and, twenty minutes later, the special train waiting for them at Kenny Junction.  And as they were whirled South, somewhere in Yorkshire, a great train roared past bearing the sleeping Symington to the rudest awakening of his

life.  He had laid himself down in his berth, still savage with chagrin at his blunder in bringing his two prisoners face to face before they were sufficiently subdued, yet confident as ever of ultimate victory.  Poor little Kitty!  Plucky though she was, she was bound to give in once hunger and distress got the upper hand.

Suddenly she sprang from the couch.  Danger?  What danger would she not dare in order to help—to save—Colin?  Her mind was still very clear.  She thought quickly.  Then acted.

She switched off the lights, groped her way behind the curtain to the bed, and lay down.  On the wall, convenient to her hand, was a bell-button.  She gave it a long pressure, then waited—in vain.  Again she rang; again and yet again.  At the end of ten minutes she began to fear for her scheme, but just then she heard shuffling steps in the passage.  The bolt was drawn, the door opened, and a voice demanded crossly to know what she wanted at two in the morning.

Kitty groaned and cried: “Oh, I can’t bear it any longer.  Please bring some food—bread, water—anything.  I’m too weak to get up.”

At the re-bolting of the door Kitty got up.  Presently she was leaning against the wall just behind the door.  She trembled all over; her heart thumped; she feared she was going to faint.  Would the woman never return?

At last she came, threw open the door, and still drowsy and grumbling, proceeded with an untidy tray in the direction of the bed.  She was at the curtain when Kitty darted from her corner and out into the passage.  Bang went the door, home went the trusty bolt!

A single light glowed in the passage.  Without pause Kitty ran next door, shot the bolt, to the next again, and treated it likewise.  From within a man’s voice called sleepily: “What’s up?”  Then she had to take the support of the wall, her hand to her heart—but not for long.  The trapped woman began a noisy protest.  Kitty went back and said as firmly as she could—

“If you make another sound, I swear you’ll get no mercy later.  The man’s bolted in too.”

“You can’t get out of the basement,” bawled the prisoner.  “The stair-door’s locked, and he took the key with him.”

The woman began to whine.

“Hold your tongue,” said Kitty, and left her.

She ran to the place where she had seen Colin.  Through the bars she beheld him huddled on the sofa.  A large earthenware jug lay smashed in a pool on the floor.

With her heart overflowing, her eyes half blind with tears, she tore back the bolt.  He did not move at her entrance, not even when she fell on her knees beside him.