Kitty Carstairs

Sam was doomed to be late in starting on his round that morning.  The moment Kitty’s mind grasped the significance of the windfall her tongue was loosed.  She talked excitedly, even wildly.  The sender of the notes—she wished he had given his name—must be some one whom her father had helped in the old days.  Her father was always lending money that never came back.  That was why there was none when he died.  She hoped she might some day discover the sender, otherwise he could never realize how much more than kind, how truly wonderful, was the thing he had done.  For he had given a desperate, persecuted girl her freedom!

“But what are ye going to do, Miss?” Sam ventured at last.

“I’m going to trust you,” she said, with a broken laugh.

She laughed again, and said, “I’m going to London!”

“London!”

“To-night!”

It took Sam some moments to recover.  “But what’s taking ye a’ the road to London?”

“I’ve always wanted to go.  I’ve always said I would go if I had the money—and now I’ve got it!”

“Ha’ ye friends in London?”

“I’ve no enemies.”

“Oh, but this’ll never do!” he cried.  “What’ll happen to ye?”

“Perhaps I’ll have some adventures—I hope so—an’—”

“Adventures, guid God!”

“—And I may make my fortune.”

He threw up his hands muttering, “Oh, dear! the money has turned her head!”

She laid her hand on his arm.  “I want you to help me,” she said softly; “that is, if you can do it without getting yourself into trouble.  The express stops at Kenny Junction at five minutes to nine, but that’s six miles away, and I must take some luggage—”

“I’ve thought it out, and dreamed of it, and cried about it, Sam, oh, a hundred times!  Now, can you get some one with a cart, or anything on wheels, to meet me, secretly, outside of the village, at seven o’clock?”

He gave her a long look.  “Will ye no’ think over it, Miss?” he asked at last.

“I’m going to-night.  Can’t you imagine what life here, with those people, must be?”

“Aye,” he said slowly.  “No’ to be endured, I dare say.  But—”—he became timid—“I mun ask ye a question, Miss, whether it offends ye or no.  It—it’s about young Mr. Hayward.  Ye’re no’ running away wi’ him, are ye?”

Once more she laughed.  “I had forgotten all about him,” she said truthfully.  “What a question to ask!”  Then she flushed a little.

He looked abashed as he murmured—

“Young folks do stupid things in haste, and it was for both your sakes I asked the question.  Well, well,” he went on, “if your mind’s made up, I suppose I canna change it.”

“And you’ll see about a cart, Sam?” she said eagerly.

“No, I’ll no’ do that!”

“Because when ye leave your uncle’s house, when ye leave Dunford, ye mun leave wi’ your head high and your name fair.  Think, Miss!  What’ll it mean if ye creep away as if—as if ye was guilty?  Why, it would mean that your uncle would be free to make a scandal, aye, and maybe do something worse—”

“But he can prove me guilty as it is!  And do you think for a moment he would let me go?”

“Will ye trust me, Miss?”

“Of course, Sam.”

“Ye promise?”

“Yes; if you won’t keep me from going?”

“Then ye’ve promised!  Now listen, for we’ll maybe no’ get another chance to arrange it.  At seven o’clock to-night ye’ll ha’ your bag and things ready, and ye’ll come down the stair, wi’ neither fear nor trembling, and ye’ll open the door, and ye’ll find me waiting wi’ a cart—”

“But, Sam, Sam—”

“And if your uncle or your aunt asks where ye’re going, answer the truth.  But if they try to stop ye, leave them to me.  That’s all.  If ye canna trust me—”

“Oh, but I will—I do!” she cried, “though I don’t understand—”

Kitty was not sorry to discover that she had only five minutes left for breakfast.  She was all apprehension lest her nerves or her looks should betray her.  The slightest appearance of cheerfulness, she felt, would alone be fatal.  Fortunately, her uncle had left the table, and was immersed in the morning paper at the fireside.  Zeniths had fallen half a crown, and it seemed to him the beginning of the end.  His niece’s engagement to Symington twelve hours hence would not take place a moment too soon.  He never doubted that the girl would give in.

Miss Corrie, silent, her face a melancholy mask, was beginning to tidy up things.

Not a word was spoken during the girl’s brief stay at the table, but when she rose to go to open the office her uncle spoke from behind the paper.

“Ye’ll mind what I told ye?”

“I don’t think I can stop in the office till eight to-night.  I’m too tired.”

There was a silence full of acute suspense, until he returned grudgingly—

“Very well.  Your aunt can take charge after tea.”

She hurried away, her heart thumping with relief.  She would have nearly an hour and a half to herself before the hour of departure.  Heaven help her to keep her self-control till then.  She told herself she did not doubt Sam, and yet . . .

“John,” said Miss Corrie, “do ye think she’ll give in?”

“She darena face the other thing.”

After a pause—“John, what do ye think she wanted the five-pun’ note for?”

“Ye can ask her.”

“She might ha’ got a safer place to hide it than she did—”

“Will ye hold your silly tongue, woman!  Zeniths went down two-and-six yesterday.  I’m going up to White Farm.”

*     *     *     *     *

At last she felt she must go or faint.  She opened the door softly and picked up her burdens.  The bag was heavy.  She was taking her father’s manuscripts.  Stealthily she stepped across the small landing, and began to descend.  But it was impossible to move, laden as she was, on that narrow, wooden stair without making considerable noise.  And as she reached the bottom she was confronted by her uncle, who had just shut the shop for the night.

“What’s this?” he demanded with an awful frown, as he blocked the way to the front door.

Kitty’s heart all but failed her.  She cleared her throat, wet her lips, and managed to utter the words—

“I’m going to London.”

For a moment the man was stupefied.  Then his shout went down the passage leading to shop and post office—

In desperation Kitty sought to push past.  He seized her arm.  He was breathing hard; his face was the colour of putty.

Miss Corrie appeared.

“What is it?  Oh!” she exclaimed, perceiving the luggage.

“She’s mad,” said her brother thickly, “says she going to London.  Liker to jail!”

“How can she go to London or any place?” cried the woman, “unless—did ye check the cash, John?”

“Aunt Rachel!” exclaimed the girl.

“Take her luggage up the stair, Rachel,” Corrie ordered.  “We’ll ha’ to do something—”

The door was opened from the outside.  Sam stood on the step.  Beyond him, at the gate of the little garden, was a pony cart he had borrowed or hired.

“Are ye ready, Miss?” said Sam, cheerfully.

Corrie strode to the door, his face working with passion.

“What the — do ye mean?” he demanded threateningly.

“Miss Carstairs,” said Sam, without flinching, “is for London, and it’s my pleasure to drive her to the junction.”

Swiftly Sam stepped inside, and closed the door,

“Mr. Corrie,” he said quietly, “I would advise ye no’ to interfere.”  To Kitty—“I’ll take your luggage, Miss.”

Corrie, beside himself, raised his fist.

“Wait,” said the other, still calmly.  “The folk in Dunford are maybe dull, but I could tell them a thing, Mr. Corrie, that would make them spit on ye in the street, and maybe pull your house and shop about your ears. . . .  Come, Miss.”

“Move a step, and I send for the policeman,” roared Corrie.

“In which case,” retorted the postman, “I’ll just ha’ to give ye in charge.  For what, I ask ye, was ye doin’ up the ladder yesterday, about 12.30 p.m.?”

“By God, postman.  I’ll—”

And he and the girl passed out without hindrance.

When they had gone the woman turned a ghastly face on her brother.

“John, ye mun tell me what he meant about the ladder.”

As if he had not heard, Corrie staggered out of the house and took the road to White Farm.

Sam put his charge into the express with many injunctions and a package of sweets.  Kitty had scarcely spoken during the drive, and now speech failed her altogether.  She could only cling to his rough hand, and nod her promises to send her address, when she found one, and let him know if ever she required help.  He was a lonely man, and she had given him a new and great interest in life.

They were too much engrossed at the last minute to notice a high-wheeled gig dash up to the station gate and deposit a passenger who entered the train lower down just as it was starting.

After Carlisle, however, she found herself alone, and the solitude began to have a soothing effect.  She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes.  The great train—the dear, kind monster she had so often watched and longed to travel on—thundered out its miles southward, and at two in the morning slumber was not far from the exhausted girl.

Kitty gave a little sigh of content—and opened her eyes.

The door of the compartment slid back.  Alec Symington entered.

For a moment or two Kitty was terror-stricken.

Then common sense came to her aid.  She was free, she was independent: the man might annoy her with his attentions, but he could not harm her.  She sat up and met his smile with a grave look of inquiry.

“This is a pleasant surprise, Kitty,” he said, seating himself directly opposite.  “Rather a crowd in my part of the train, and I was hunting for a compartment with room to spare when fortune led me here,” he lied.  “Not often I’m so lucky.”

Kitty made no response.

“You might have let me know you were going to make a journey,” he said pleasantly, “but perhaps you decided on it since I saw you.”  He glanced at her things on the rack.  “I see you are going all the way.  Well, so much the better for me—eh?  Come, Kitty, be friendly and say something.”

“You’re thinking of last night—or, to be correct, the night before last.  Well, I’m glad of this chance of apologizing.  I’m sorry I struck the postman, but I was mad with the man for interfering, you know.  I had something to tell you, Kitty, something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. . . .  Well, are you going to forgive me?”

“You had better ask Sam that.  You didn’t hurt me—you only disgusted me.  I think you should try to find a seat in another compartment.”  She was quite cool now.  Indeed, she was not sorry to have the opportunity of humiliating him for Sam’s sake.

At her words his face took on a dusky shade, but he asked quietly enough, “Is that quite fair, Kitty?”

“You have no right to my name.”  Had she owned a book then she would have opened it.  She turned to the window, let up the blind, and sought to ignore him by peering out into the darkness; but if she thought thus to get rid of his company, or even silence him, she was mistaken.

“You are a very foolish little girl,” he said presently.  “Here you are, running away to London, where you haven’t a friend—”

“Well, have you?”

“Yes!”  It was true.  She had suddenly remembered that Colin was there, not that she expected ever to meet him.  But the inspiration served her purpose: Symington was taken aback.

“Then it is some one your uncle does not know of,” he said sharply, and wished he had not spoken, for she was quick to retort—

“So my uncle told you I was in the train, though you pretended to be surprised to see me!  I may be foolish, Mr. Symington, but I’m not utterly stupid.”

“You are—delightfully stupid,” he returned, restraining his temper, “if you think I’m going to let you disappear into London before I have seen what your friend is like.  London is a dangerous place, as you would know if you had ever shown your pretty face in it before.  Now don’t get excited.  Be reasonable—patient, if you like to call it that.  I don’t wonder at your running away from your awful relations and that dead-alive village, but what are you going to do in London?”

Kitty, now both angry and uneasy, did not reply.

“You needn’t concern yourself whether I have money or not,” she interrupted hotly.  “You will force me to leave this—”

“Please—just a moment.  I can’t help concerning myself—no man could—in the circumstances.  And as I happen to be a man who is in love with you—oh, you know it very well—”

She rose to take her things from the rack.  It was certainly not a wise move.  With a strange laugh he sprang up and caught her, prisoning her arms.

Wrenching one of her hands free she struck him in the face.

“You beast!”

Doubtless the word stung more than the blow.  A madness grew in his eyes.

“By Heavens, I’ll kiss you for that!” he cried—and let her go with a stifled curse.  The girl sank into her corner, ruddy.  The man sat down, ghastly.

The corridor door was drawn back by a young woman in rather fashionable attire.  In her left hand she had a “sevenpenny,” a finger marking the place.  Without a glance at either occupant she stepped in and, leaving the door open, seated herself and began to read.

“Look here, Kitty, it’s all right,” he whispered, and surreptitiously put his hand on her elbow.

She started as if from pollution.  “Can’t you leave me alone?” she said under her breath.  “I’ll never want to see you again, but I’ll hate you a little less, perhaps, if you go back to the compartment you came from—anywhere out of this.”

Nettled, he replied, “You may as well make up your mind that I’m going to see you start safe in London.”

She drew away from him as far as possible and resumed her study of the darkness.

It was beginning to dawn on Symington that she was not a bad looking girl, though she must be a pure idiot, when a steward from the sleeping-car appeared in the doorway.  The man saluted the girl respectfully, and as though he were pleased to see her.

“Didn’t know you were travelling with us to-night, Miss,” he remarked.

She smiled upon him, and tearing out the fly-leaf, folded and handed it to him with a look which apparently he understood.  He bowed and retired.

Symington had got the length of admitting to himself that in other circumstances she might have made a pleasant enough travelling companion, when the official again appeared.  Not a little to Symington’s surprise it was himself who the man now addressed.

“Excuse me, sir,” came the polite English speech, “but I can find you a comfortable seat in another part of the train.”

“Sorry sir, but this compartment is reserved for ladies only,” said the other, politely as before, and proceeded to affix to the window a label bearing out his statement.

Symington hesitated, but he had the wit to realize that there was nothing for it but to go.  Bluster would only make him ridiculous.  With what dignity he could command he said to Kitty, “I’ll see you when we arrive,” favoured the intruder with a scowl which ought to have slain her, but which nearly made her smile, and followed the official.

And Kitty began to sob helplessly, her face in her handkerchief.

At the end of, perhaps, a couple of minutes she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and was aware that the intruder was sitting down beside her.

“If you cry any longer,” said a calm low-pitched voice, “I’ll be thinking I did the wrong thing in interfering.  Besides, the attendant will be here immediately with some tea for us, and he might think he had done the wrong thing, too.  Also, you have nothing to cry about now—have you?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Kitty answered, turning her attention from her eyes to her pretty hair.  “But you were so cool!”

“I suppose I was.  Once I’ve made up my mind to do a thing, I get that way.  Besides, I’m never afraid of a man!”

“Never afraid of a man!” cried Kitty in tones of such amazement that her new friend checked a laugh.

“No; because, you see, a man in his soul is always afraid of a woman.  It’s a useful thing to remember, Miss Carstairs.”

“But—but do you—hate men?”

“On the contrary!  Most of my friends are men.  Here comes the tea; now we’ll be happy!”  The attendant placed the tray on the seat, beamed on Miss Risk and withdrew.

Kitty looked like crying again.

“Feeling pretty fit now, aren’t you?” she said encouragingly, and rang the bell.

“Oh, quite different; I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Risk,” Kitty said gratefully.  “You’ve been so good to me—and you don’t know a thing about me.”

“May I ask two questions?”

“Ask anything—please.”

“Just two for the present.  Have you friends meeting you at Euston?”

“No.”

“And where do you want to go on your arrival in London?”

“I—don’t know.”

Hilda nodded gravely.  “I see you have a story,” she said, “but even if you wish to tell it, I want you to keep it back—for the present, at any rate.  You and I must have a nap, or we shall be mere wrecks at the end of the journey—and I’ve pages to cover before lunch-time.  Ah, here he comes!”

Two minutes later she had Kitty tucked up on one of the seats.

“Now go to sleep without wasting a moment in worrying over what’s going to happen a few hours hence.  We’ll manage nicely.  Leave it to me.”

And Kitty left it.  She was not used to being taken care of, but even the novelty of that experience did not long withstand slumber.  In a few minutes she had forgotten it along with her weariness and woes.

*     *     *     *     *

As the porter took their things, Hilda whispered to Kitty—

“Don’t look about you; and if you happen to see him, don’t show it.  Come along!”

Presently, they were driving westwards in an open taxi-cab.  It was a lovely morning, and the air was delicious after the confinement of the long journey.

“What a nice country colour you have,” Hilda remarked, “but you’re not a country-bred girl, are you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You mean that I don’t seem excited?  But, you see, I—I’m wondering.”

“Where we are going?” said Hilda, taking a quick glance behind.

“Am I rude?”

“Not at all.  A most natural thing to wonder about.  Well, at the present, we are going to call—just for a moment—on my rich and only brother, who does not approve of my way of life, though he’s as good as any brother could be.  After I have given him a message you are coming home with me for breakfast—and that’s enough to go on with, I hope.”

“But you don’t know anything about me!” cried Kitty.

Hilda’s smile was very kind.  “I certainly don’t know your pedigree, nor the name and address of your dentist; but I believe I could guess almost as much as you could tell me concerning your recent troubles.  However, you can tell me what you will, later on.  Meantime, take it easy and get up an appetite.”

The cab turned to the left, negotiating a maze of streets of varied aspect, and at last drew up at the imposing doorway of Aberdare Mansions.

In the hall, waiting for the lift, she said: “Now don’t be alarmed.  Our friend of last night followed us in another taxi, and has doubtless noted the address.  I fancied he would do something like that, and accordingly we have stopped here.”

“To put him on a wrong scent!” Kitty exclaimed almost gleefully.  “How clever you are!”

“Now let’s go up and give my brother the message.  Our things can lie here till we come down again.  In you go!”

They soared to the fourth floor, where the conductress rang at the door on the right.  A discreet-looking man-servant opened, and permitted himself to smile a welcome.

“Good morning, Sharp,” said Hilda.  “We’re not coming in.  I want to see Mr. Risk for twenty seconds.  As it’s so early, he may come in his dressing-gown.  Tell him it’s most urgent.”

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed at the sight of Kitty.  “I beg your pardon!” he added quickly.  “What is it, Hilda?”

“Just this, John.  If a gentleman, more or less, should call here with inquiries about a Miss Kitty Carstairs, you will oblige by treating him as you would treat an undesirable person inquiring for your own sister.  And please instruct Sharp accordingly.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Risk, without the slightest emotion of any kind.  “I’ll remember, and so shall Sharp.  But may I know the gentleman’s name, more or less?”

Hilda turned to Kitty.  “Would you mind?”

“Mr. Symington,” murmured Kitty, with a lovely, shameful colour.

“Thank you. . . .  But, my dear sister, where are your manners?”

It was Hilda’s turn to blush.  “Oh, Miss Carstairs, do forgive me!  That wretched man put everything out of my head.  Let me introduce my brother, Mr. Risk—Miss Carstairs.”

Mr. Risk held out his hand—apparently he had forgotten his costume—and the embarrassed girl could not but take it.

“Impossible—thanks all the same.  Good-bye, John, and don’t forget the name.”

“I will,” he retorted teasingly, “and treat all inquiring gentlemen as you requested.”

Hilda went laughing into the lift, and Kitty, feeling the friendly clasp of her arm, smiled almost happily.

At the same hour, some four hundred miles away, Kitty’s absence was being felt.  It was time to open the post office, and John Corrie was realizing that he would have more than enough to do until he secured a new assistant—whom he would have to pay!

Corrie had just opened the shop.  Outside the boy was cleaning the windows; inside Miss Corrie was setting things straight on the provision counter.  He himself was bending at the open safe, taking out the usual supplies of silver and copper for the tills.  These were contained in ancient battered pewter mugs, and now he laid the mugs on the floor preparatory to closing and locking up the safe.

An impatient knocking came from the post office, and he cursed under his breath.  But it was already five minutes past eight, and it would never do to have talk about the office not being opened punctually.  Rising, he called to his sister to look after the money, and hastened away to admit the knocker.

But, a yard from the safe, the woman’s listlessness vanished, her face flamed, and then went more pallid than ever.  Never before had her brother done such a thing!!—gone out of the shop, leaving his keys in the safe.  Her opportunity at last!

She ran softly to the door that opened on the post office and put her ear to it.  Several persons were demanding the postmaster’s attention.  There was time as well as opportunity!  She darted back to the safe . . . opened it, then the drawer on the left . . . searched . . . and found what she sought—the letter written to her brother by Kitty’s father when he was dying.  She hid it in her bosom, to read when she might safely do so.  She left the safe as she had found it, took up the mugs of money and proceeded to supply the tills with change.  The letter seemed to scorch her breast.  She could not wait.

Miss Corrie swayed as though she would fall.  “So that’s why he would never let me read it properly!” she muttered.  “Oh, John Corrie, what ha’ ye done!”

After a little while she obtained control over her body.  “What made him keep a thing like that?  It should ha’ been burned—burned and forgot!”

She reached forward, held the letter over the fire—and drew it back.  “But what if he misses it from the safe?”

In miserable uncertainty she began to re-read the document.  In the midst of it she went rigid.  Her brother was coming through the shop, calling her.  Her fingers fumbled at her bodice.  Too late!  In her panic her eye was caught by the morning’s paper lying on the floor at her side.  She snatched it up, pushed the letter into the folds, and made pretence of reading.

“What’s wrong wi’ ye?” said Corrie, entering.

“Away and attend to the post office,” he returned.  “I mun be in the shop this forenoon. . . .  D’ye hear me?”

“Aye.”  To take the paper with her would be sheer madness, she reflected quickly; besides he was done with it.  She would come back for it at the first opportunity.  Letting it fall where she had found it, she got up and left the kitchen.

He followed her, growling.

*     *     *     *     *

At half-past eleven, the morning delivery finished, Sam, as was his custom, came into the shop to purchase a paper.

“There’s no’ one left,” said the boy.

From the opposite counter, where he was serving a customer, Corrie called to the boy—

“Ye’ll get one in the house.”  It was not the first time he had sold his own paper to the postman.

So presently the boy came back with the paper, and Sam, folding it up, put it in his pocket, and went home to see what was happening in the great world.

Fortunately for his stomach’s sake, at any rate, it was the weekly half-holiday, so that Mr. Corrie, having closed the shop at one, was free to relieve his sister in the post office and dispatch her to prepare, with all speed, something in the way of dinner.  He was a little astonished at the eagerness with which she departed to do his bidding.

A minute later she was back, looking as though she had seen a ghost.

“John, where’s the paper?”

“What paper?”

“The morning paper.  Quick!—what ha’ ye done wi’ it?”

He turned from the counter with a grunt of impatience.  “Get my dinner ready and never heed about the paper!  If ye want to ken, Zeniths dropped six-and-threepence yesterday—no’ that it matters to us now.  Away wi’ ye and hurry up.”

That startled him.  “What the mischief’s wrong wi’ ye, woman?” he demanded, regarding her frowningly.  “Sam, the postman, got the paper.  There wasna another in the shop—”

For a moment’s space she gazed at him as though he had said something too awful for belief.  Then, with a wail, she threw up her hands.

“It’s the beginning o’ the judgment!”

“What d’ye mean?  Are ye daft?”  He seized her roughly by the arm.  “Speak!”

“The letter was inside the paper,” she moaned.

“The letter!  What letter?”

“Hugh Carstairs’ letter about the shares. . . . I took it from the safe to read it. . . .  When I heard ye coming to the kitchen I was feared, and I hid it in the paper. . . .  I—I didna mean to betray ye, John, but—oh, dinna look at me like that!”

“Ye—!” he stormed, “ye’ve ruined me, damned me!”  For an instant it seemed as though he would smite her, but he flung away, saying, “Get out o’ my sight!  Ye’ve done for your brother!”

“There’s just a chance he hasna opened it yet.  Haste ye to his house and tell him ye want a sight o’ it for ten minutes.  Make any excuse ye like, but gang quick.”

Willingly she went, poor soul, for with all her being she loved this brother of hers, contemptible thief though he was.

John Corrie lived a hideous age in the ten minutes that followed.  Then Rachel returned with the paper in her hand, but everything else about her told him she had failed.

“John,” she said, “I’ll offer him every penny I possess”—she had laid by nearly two thousand pounds—“for the letter.”

As though he had not heard her he passed into the empty, semi-dark shop, and sank on a chair at the counter.  He was weak and sick with dread.

She followed, and repeated her suggestion.

“Away!” he cried; “I mun think.”

Reluctantly she left him, and in the kitchen recovered herself sufficiently to set about preparing some strong tea.

An hour passed before he joined her, and started to pace the floor.

She nodded, her mouth quivering.

“Ye ken what it means in the hands o’ an enemy—a friend o’ Hugh Carstairs’ daughter? . . .  Jail!”

“Oh, John! . . .  But he’ll maybe sell it to me.”

“Ye fool!”

Presently she said: “Sit down, dearie, and try a cup o’ tea.  I’ve made it fresh for ye.”

He went on pacing.  “And what about Symington?”

“If ye were to tell him the truth, maybe—”

“Ye fool!”

“But I was thinking,” she said meekly, “he might help ye for his own sake.”

“The only way he can help me is to marry your niece within the three months, getting her promise at once, of course.  But—”

“Something maybe happened in the train last night,” she ventured.  “Ye’ll be hearing from him in the morning.”

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “where she got the money to gang to London wi’.”

The woman’s hand went to her flat breast.

“No,” was the sullen answer.

“Oh, John, John! . . .  But ye’ve enough to bear now without me reproaching ye.”  After a pause she continued: “She’ll ha’ to send Sam her address afore he can do anything wi’ the letter.”

“Aye; but they’re no’ such fools as to communicate wi’ each other through this office.”

She sighed helplessly.

“There’s somebody in the office,” he said suddenly.  “I’ll—”

“Let me,” she interposed; “ye’re no’ fit.  Take your tea till I come back.”

She was absent several minutes, and on her return she was cheered by seeing him at the table and the cup empty.

“Who was it, and what were ye doing in the shop?” he asked, more from habit than interest.

“It was Mr. Hayward—”

“Him!  What was he wanting?”

“A notebook, and he was terrible particular about the size.  He had a piece o’ paper with the measurements wrote on it.”

“Ye wouldna find anything fine enough to suit him.”

He was brooding again, and minutes passed ere he roused himself.

“That postman’s got me,” he muttered bitterly, “got me as never a man was got before.  I’m cornered.  He’ll hear from the girl to-morrow—they’ll ha’ planned about writing, ye can be sure—and then he’ll get to work wi’ the letter.  God!  I feel like making a bolt for it—but where can a man hide in these days o’ wireless telegrams and so forth.”  All at once he turned on her snarling: “What for did ye interfere wi’ my private affairs?”

She winced and shuddered.  “The Lord kens I’m sorry,” she whimpered.  “And He kens I would do anything to help ye now.  John, is there anything I can do?”

“Aye,” he replied with a dreadful ironic laugh, “ye can burn the cursed letter!”

Gaping, she gazed at him.  What did he mean?

“Only, ye would likewise need to burn the postman’s house over his head, and that within the next twelve hours.”  The laugh came again and died into silence.

“I’ll do it. . . .  John, I’ll do it for your sake!”

“What?” he shouted, and started to his feet.

She staggered, recovered, and rushed from the kitchen.  When he followed he found that she had locked herself in her own room.

He passed into the dim shop and sat down.

“Did she mean it?” he asked of the shadows.  And later—“Better her than me, for who would ever suspect her?”

It was evening when she came out.  She went about her accustomed duties, but her countenance was grey and stony, and she was as one stricken dumb.  And he, being afraid to ask a certain question and incapable of thinking of aught else, was dumb also.  They retired at the usual hour of ten.

Colin’s change of mind with respect to the hundred pounds had taken place within the hour following his proud refusal.  The thought of Kitty’s position in the event of a scandal was too much for him.  Dependent on the Corries, practically a prisoner in Dunford, the sensitive girl would be bound to suffer terribly—and all on account of himself.  And so he had gone downstairs, miserable enough, but prepared to tell his father that he would take the money after all, prepared also for humiliation.  But, as we know, he was spared the latter.  It should be added that he did not for an instant doubt that the notes had been deliberately left on the writing-table.  His father was not the man to be careless where money was concerned.

It is not to be assumed that Colin arrived in London penniless.  To be precise, he possessed the sum of £15 1s. 1d, but whether such a considerable sum gives a young man a better start than the proverbial half-crown may be left open to question.  With only thirty pence in his pocket a man dare not pause to pick and choose, and perhaps that is the real secret of the success of the half-crown adventurers—if they ever really existed.

London held but one man whom Colin desired to meet.  This was Anthony West, a friend of his earlier student days.  West, who was several years the senior, had been a failure, too; that is to say, he had stuck in the midst of his science course, wriggled for a while between paternal wishes and personal inclination, and been captured finally by the latter.  A writer of clever prose trifles and dainty verse, he had plunged into journalism.  The friends had not met since then, and their correspondence had gradually ceased.  West’s last letter had been written two years ago.

“Well, this is good!” cried West.  “Sit down!”  From a broken easy chair he swept a pile of newspapers and a dozen or so books for review.  “Here, take a cigarette, and give me ten minutes to finish this.”  The scribbling was resumed, with the remark—Greek to Colin: “It’s those dashed Zeniths—started booming again this morning.”

At the end of seven minutes he sat up, rang the bell, and swung round towards his visitor.

“Talk!” he said, wiping his brow with one hand, and tapping a cigarette on the desk with the other.

A boy dashed in, grabbed the scribbled sheets, and fled.

“Do you still write verses?” asked Colin involuntarily.

West exploded with amusement.  “So that’s how it strikes you!  Yes, I do—not here—but never mind me—what are you doing in London?”

“Nothing,” was the truthful enough answer.

West’s gaze was kindly.

“Thanks, Anthony.  I see you haven’t changed,” said Colin gratefully.  “I’ll tell you all about it, for I need advice badly.”  And with commendable brevity he gave his friend an outline of his affairs.

After he had ended the other remained silent, a brooding look on his tired, rugged, honest face, for nearly a minute.  He spoke abruptly, but gently.

“What do you want to do?”

“Anything.”

“H’m!  What can you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, it can’t be so bad as all that, Colin!  Do anything in the way of writing nowadays?”

Colin flushed.

“Haven’t touched it for a year.  You see, I did make an attempt to please the governor.”

“And before that?”

“Had a few small things accepted here and there, locally, you know.”

“But four pounds a week is rather good,” said Colin.

“So I thought when I was a student, living at the cost of my father.  Why, now, I could easily spend it all on books alone.”

“Are—are you married?” Colin ventured.

“No . . .  I’m not complaining, you know.  Four quid is doubtless as much as I deserve, but I’d like to be able to look forward to something bigger—only I daren’t hope.  If I were you, Colin, I’d leave writing—journalism or the other thing—for a last resort.  Take a look round and see what you can see.  I suppose you have some stuff to go on with.”

“About fifteen pounds.”

Anthony frowned.  “That doesn’t give you much rope.  Of course.  I’ll be delighted—”

“Please!” interrupted Colin.

Anthony shook his pen and scribbled a few lines, folded the sheet, and put it in an envelope, which he addressed to—

“John Risk, Esq.,

“83 Aberdare Mansions, W.”

Handing over the letter he said: “You may find him cool at first; he is seldom anything else.  Coolness seems to run in his family.  But whatever you are, be frank with him.  Come and see me to-night and report.  There’s my address.  I’ll have a chop for you at seven—and a bed if you’ll stay.  And now”—he held out his hand—“good luck!”

At four to the minute he presented himself at 83 Aberdare Mansions.  He was evidently expected—it was like Anthony to have ’phoned—for the servant on hearing his name conducted him at once to a beautifully appointed study.

The servant placed a chair and retired.  The tall man who had risen from the writing-table took West’s note, saying courteously, “Be seated, Mr. Hayward.”  He sat down himself and read the note, then said quietly—

“Mr. West has the right to ask what he will of me, and it appears that you are his worthy friend.  Will you be good enough to tell me what you care to tell about yourself, Mr. Hayward?”

It was a less easy matter in the face of this calm, urbane stranger than it had been with Anthony for listener to render a succinct account of himself, but Colin omitted nothing, however unflattering to himself.

Mr. Risk offered no comment, but he asked one or two questions, which seemed to Colin rather idle, and then fell silent and reflective.  Suddenly he said: “Do you trust me?”  With some hesitation, but without the least dubiety Colin answered: “Certainly, Mr. Risk.”

Colin checked words at his very lips.

“A train leaves King’s Cross at 5.45, and though it does not usually stop at Dunford, I have arranged that it shall do so for you shortly after 1 a.m.  I hope you may be able to find some sort of shelter until 6, when you will deliver the letter.  You will bring back an answer by the first train possible and report to me here.  By the way, you are, perhaps, acquainted with Mr. Symington?”

“Like him?”

Colin smiled faintly.  “Can’t say I do.”

“He is quite unknown to me,” the other proceeded.  “I am curious to know, however, just how he looks when he reads this letter, and you must try to manage that for me.  Here is the letter.  There is no need for me to make a mystery of it—a simple business question.”

The letter was typed on a large sheet bearing the heading “The Zenith Gold Mining Company, Limited,” and ran as follows—

“Dear Sir,—

“We have your letter of yesterday’s date covering the Certificate (Bearer) for 500 shares, Nos. 23501 to 24600, which you desire to have converted into five certificates for 100 shares each.  This is having our attention.  Meantime, will you kindly inform us at what date, as nearly as possible, you purchased the shares numbered as above.”

It was signed by the Secretary of the Company.

Colin handed it back, remarking: “It seems a simple enough matter, Mr. Risk.”

“Certainly.”

“Good!  You are not likely to encounter your friends at so early an hour.”

“It doesn’t matter if I do.  I’m not under a very black cloud, you know.”

“Still, you are not keen on the job.”

“I’m keen on carrying it through.”

Risk nodded as much as to say: “That’s the right spirit,” and laid a couple of bank-notes on the table.

“For your expenses,” he said, and added a few instructions.  “Mr. West shall be advised that you are leaving town, so you don’t need to trouble about your engagement with him.  I’ll look for you to-morrow evening.”

Realizing that the interview was at an end, Colin rose.

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Risk.”

“I expect that of you, Mr. Hayward,” said the other, ringing the bell.

At the gate of the lift Colin stood aside to allow a lady to emerge.  Their eyes met for an instant, and he noticed that hers were unusually luminous and wide-set.  Then his mind went back to the business on hand.

“You did!  The only amends you can make is to ring for tea and tell me why you wired for me.”

“To give you tea perhaps,” he said, pressing a button.

“Come, John!  What do you want with me?”

“Who is Miss Carstairs?”

Hilda sat up.  “She’s a friend of mine—”

“New?”

“Well, she is—but why do you ask?”

“Tell me what you know about her,” he said seriously.

“I’m afraid I can’t, John,” she replied, after a moment.  “I’m under promise not to repeat what she told me.”

“That’s a pity.  Where did you meet her?  Glasgow?”

“No—on the train, last night.”

“Can’t you tell me where she came from?”

“I think I may tell you that much.  Dunford is the name of the village.”

“Dear me!  Dunford seems to be emigrating to London!”

“Nothing for you, Hilda.  Did she mention her father?”

“She told me he was dead.  He was a journalist.  They used to live in Glasgow.  I had better not say more.”

“Thanks, you’ve told me all I want to know about Miss Carstairs—for the present.  Now what can you tell me about the mysterious Mr. Symington, whose head you instructed me to punch on his calling here?”

“Oh, has he been?” she exclaimed.

“Patience!  I may be wrong, but I fancy he is still in Dunford.  In fact, I’ve just dispatched a messenger—”

“Nonsense!  The man’s in London—or was this morning!”

“Indeed!  Why didn’t you say so this morning?” Risk asked without irritation.

“I thought that you would understand that he was—was after us.”

“But what do you know of him?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“The Zenith secretary sent me a letter this morning which had come from a Mr. Symington, of Dunford, and now you have strengthened my suspicion induced by the letter that he is also the objectionable person.  Of course, there may be another Mr. Symington in Dunford, so I’ll let my messenger go ahead.  It will be good training for him anyway—test his discretion and so on.  What does Miss Carstairs say about Symington?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Has she mentioned a Mr. Hayward—Colin Hayward?”

“No.”

Just then the servant brought tea.  When he had retired, Hilda said—

“John, do tell me what it all means.”

He looked at her gravely.  “I don’t know yet.  It may all mean nothing of any consequence.  On the other hand it may mean something of considerable importance.”

“To you?”

“To your new friend.  Now hold your tongue, and pour out.”