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.
Well, he would send the notes to Kitty in such a way that she could not
suspect him. A hundred pounds would give her a certain independence and
power whatever happened; they would open a way of escape if the need for
that became urgent. Colin did not ignore the possibility of her going to
London, but he honestly strove to extinguish the hope of meeting her
there. Had she not told him frankly that she did not love him, and what
was his worldly state that he should dare to dream of any girl as his
own? As an honourable man he must go his own way and endeavour to forget
those sweet stolen hours in the woods around Dunford.
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.
Colin had plenty of acquaintances, not to mention sundry relations in
London, but he had no desire to see them in his present circumstances,
nor did he imagine they would be rejoiced to see him. Most of us can be
quite kind to the failure, but few of us can sincerely sympathize with
him, especially when we conceive him to be a fool as well.
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.
To the address on it Colin went on the morning of his arrival. Mr. West,
the landlady informed him, had left a long time ago; she had no other
information to give. Colin, after recourse to the Directory, journeyed
to a court off Fleet Street, made some inquiries, entered a doorway of
grimy and forbidding appearance, ascended three flights of steep and
narrow stairs, and tapped at a door that had seen better days. A shout
bade him enter, and he advanced into the London office—or part of it—of a
provincial evening paper, and the presence of his friend who, bowed and
scribbling at a decrepit desk, took no notice of him. A more dismal and
dusty little room Colin had never been in. Poor old West had evidently
failed again. His heart was sinking fast when the scribbler turned,
stared and recognized him.
“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.
“Go on! Something tells me you are in a hole, and if I can do anything
to help—”
“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.”
Anthony sighed. “I broke forcibly away from the uncongenial myself,” he
said, “so my sympathy is genuine. But it didn’t mean falling into
clover. I’m here from seven to twelve six days a week doing things I
hate, and earning some money. For the rest of the day I’m free—and
sometimes my brains are free, too—to do things I like, which, however,
seldom earn anything. My income is about four pounds a week, and it
might stop any week. I’m telling you these things, Colin, not to
discourage you, but simply to prepare you—”
“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.
“All right. But I’ll take it unkindly if you get stuck without letting
me know. In spite of my groans I’ve always a bit to spare—at least
nearly always.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes yet.” For a
little while he was gloomily silent, then his face lightened. “I’ll tell
you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a note to a man who is interested,
financially and otherwise, in many things. He might find you an opening
somewhere. I once was able to do him a small service, and he has a long
memory. . . . Let me see! This is Friday, and he doesn’t come to the
City. Still, I believe he’ll see you at his house—say, about four
o’clock.”
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!”
Colin went out with a full heart. What a wonderful thing was friendship!
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.”
“Then I will trust you,” said Risk in his matter-of-fact voice. “I am
going to give you a trial,” he went on, “and in the circumstances it is,
I admit, a rather curious one. You have, of course, the option of
refusing, but if you accept, kindly let it be done on the understanding
that you will obey my instructions implicitly. Please understand, also,
that the fact of your coming from a place called Dunford, while it forms
an odd coincidence, and may be a help, has nothing to do with my choosing
you for this particular piece of work. I would have asked you to perform
it just the same had you come from the Isle of Man. Well, now”—he paused
for a moment—“I have a letter here which I wish to be delivered first
thing in the morning to Mr. Alexander Symington, White Farm, Dunford—”
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?”
“Very slightly.”
“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.”
“I hope so. Now, are you prepared to go through with it?”
“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.
“Hullo!” said Mr. Risk as his sister came in. “Hope I didn’t interrupt
your muse in its description of some poor wretch’s wedding garments—”
“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!”
“What do you mean, John?”
“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.”
“My dear girl, I don’t wish to belittle your attractions, or Miss
Carstairs’, but I wish you had been more explicit at the time. I merely
thought that in the course of one of your escapades you had favoured an
objectionable person with your brother’s address instead of your own—an
admirable expedient I admit—but I had not thought of the person being on
your very heels, as it were.”
“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.”