COLIN HAYWARD began the journey south with much to wonder about. He had
obtained no light whatever on the extraordinary affair in front of the
burning house, for Sam had not recovered consciousness. It was, indeed,
doubtful whether he would ever do so. Colin had not the slightest
suspicion as to the identity of the muffled coward whom he had seen fell
the half-suffocated postman; he had not, owing to position, observed the
former take anything from the latter’s helpless hand; neither had he in
his rage noticed the crushed letter fall. It was in his path as he
turned to the victim’s succour, and he had picked it up almost
automatically, with some vague notion that it might be of consequence to
somebody or other.
Then he had forgotten about it.
Now—an hour after leaving the junction—having exhausted the contents of
his cigarette case, he put his hand into a pocket for a reserve packet,
and encountered the document. He merely glanced at its heading,
intending to place it in his letter-case for attention later. He had no
intention of reading it through. Enough to learn to whom it belonged.
But the words “My dear Corrie” arrested both hand and eye. Presently he
told himself that there was nothing so very strange in this; the letter
might easily have been dropped and left lying there hours before the
ghastly affair took place. He noticed the date was of more than five
years back. But in the same moment he was caught by the words “Kitty”
and “Zeniths”—and “5,000 shares.”
“I’m afraid,” he said to himself, “I’ve got to read this whether I like
it or not.”
It was a longish letter, written in a clear small hand on both sides of a
large square sheet. The portion with which we are concerned was as
follows:—
“You may perhaps find nothing in the enclosed share certificates
(which, please note, are ‘bearer’) but a fresh evidence of my folly
in worldly matters. Still, the Zenith Gold Mine is the only thing of
the kind I ever put hard-earned money into. There are 5,000 £1
shares, and I paid 2s. apiece for them, and at the moment they are
unsaleable. I acted on the advice of a friend who had seen the
property, and who had knowledge of such things. He was convinced
that the mine would come right in time—meaning years—and pay big
dividends. Well, he may have been all wrong, and I the silliest of
poor fools; but now, John, I put the shares in your keeping as a
‘possibility’ for Kitty, when she comes of age. I have never
mentioned them to her—certainly not with any reference to herself—for
I don’t want her to be more disappointed in me than I can help. Give
them to her when she is twenty-one, and show her this letter, and if
by any chance they are worth money then, or later, she will at least
repay you what she may have cost you—though, of course, I am hoping
she will earn enough to do that as she goes along.
_N.B._ Should you hear of the shares rising before then, you will
just use your discretion, and do the best you can for my girl.”
Colin’s delight at the thought of Kitty having a fortune of her own was
soon swamped by a flood of doubts and suspicions. The remainder of the
journey was a sort of nightmare. Of only one thing could he assure
himself as he neared London: Kitty’s fortune, were it in danger from
persons in London or Dunford, was not going to be made an easier prey by
any act of his. At first he had thought of showing the letter to Mr.
Risk and asking his advice, but now he determined that his only course
was to return to Dunford at the earliest possible moment, and put it into
the hands of Kitty herself. He might be losing the chance of his life by
such an action, and Mr. Risk might be the best and straightest of men,
but Colin was so truly in love with the girl that the hopelessness of it
made no difference. Consequently nothing but her happiness mattered.
It was about five o’clock when he reached Aberdare Mansions. He was
admitted without delay to his employer’s study. Before he could speak,
Mr. Risk, with a smile, said—
“Sorry I gave you that vain journey, Hayward. This morning a note from
Symington came to the office requesting that the new certificates should
be delivered to him at the Kingsway _Grand Hotel_.”
“Yes; that’s the address his housekeeper gave me, Mr. Risk,” said Colin.
“Do you wish me to take the letter there now?” he inquired, producing it.
Risk took it and laid it on the writing-table, saying: “About noon I sent
the secretary to the hotel with a similar letter, and he found that Mr.
Symington had left for Scotland about two hours previously—presumably in
response to a wire which the secretary was able to learn he had
received.”
“Gone back to Dunford?”
“We must not assume that. Take a cigarette, Hayward, and, if agreeable
to you, tell me in a few words what you know of Mr. Symington.”
“Very little, Mr. Risk, and any information I have is indirect. His
father and his two brothers all died within a year, and about eighteen
months ago he became the owner of what we call the White Farm—a very
decent little place until he got possession. He’s not interested in
farming, you know. I’ve heard he has done all sorts of things—some
pretty queer—in his time. He has the reputation of being a gambler, and
a speculator, but please remember that I’m repeating gossip. I”—Colin
hesitated—“I really know nothing against the man.”
Risk, offering a lighted match, said quietly: “Well, what do you know in
his favour?”
Colin smiled. “One is more likely to hear of a man’s faults than his
virtues. Besides, as I told you, I’ve been more away from Dunford than
in it during the last five years or so.”
“You are not familiar with the natives?”
“Not generally speaking. Still, I hope I have a friend or two among
them.”
“Would Mr. Symington have been welcome in your home?”
“His father would have been courteously received.”
Risk nodded thoughtfully. “Please pardon so many questions, Hayward. I
feel that I may now tell you why I am taking so much trouble, and giving
you so much, over this Mr. Symington. About seven years ago I advised a
friend who had come into a little money to put it into Zeniths for what
is sometimes termed a ‘long shot.’ I did so not only because I
positively knew the mines had a great future, though possibly a distant
one, but also because I knew my friend would otherwise fritter away the
money which he honestly believed he could save for his daughter, then a
young girl. . . . Yes, Hayward? Have you something to say?”
“Please go on,” said Colin, restraining himself.
“Very well. Zeniths at that period,” the other proceeded, “were
decidedly out of favour. One could buy at two or three shillings. My
friend bought 5,000 at half a crown a share. At his request I did the
business for him and eventually handed him ten bearer certificates for
500 shares each. I am a methodical person in some respects, and in an
old diary I have a record of the transaction and the numbers of the
shares. Now—one moment, please!—I had my friend’s promise that he would
not part with the shares until I gave him the word. If he needed money
badly, he was to let me know. Time passed, and circumstances prevented
our meeting; I was much abroad. I did not hear of his death until a year
afterwards, and I failed to trace his daughter. But I have always been
on the watch for shares bearing the numbers recorded in the old diary,
and I have not grown less keen since the shares began to move up in
earnest. And now, when the shares have risen to over four pounds
apiece—when my friend, had he lived, would have seen himself worth at
least twenty thousand pounds—along comes a letter from a Mr. Symington
covering five hundred of those same shares—”
“Mr. Risk, I have something to say—”
“One moment more!—and within a few hours of its receipt I discover, by
the merest chance, the daughter of my old friend—”
“Her—his name was Carstairs—Hugh Carstairs?” exploded Colin.
“It was.”
“And no doubt you mean as well by the daughter as you meant by the
father?—Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Risk!”
For an instant Risk frowned, then he smiled pleasantly. “The daughter
has never seen me, but she has no better friend for her father’s sake.
Yet I must try to satisfy you that I am not interested in those 5,000
shares with an eye to personal profit.” He got up and, leaving Colin hot
and uncomfortable, went to a safe built into the wall behind the
panelling, a door in which stood open. He came back with a thin bundle
of parchment-like papers which he put into the young man’s hand.
“Kindly look at these, Hayward, and tell me what they represent.”
Reluctantly but perforce Colin examined the documents and after a little
while replied a trifle huskily—
“Eighty thousand shares in the Zenith Company—and you are the owner!”
“Well, does that satisfy you that I can afford to be honest? Please
don’t think I was showing off!”
Colin hung his head as he handed back the certificates—and murmured an
apology. He was not so much impressed by the man’s great wealth as by
his cool, straightforward answer to suspicion.
“You are evidently Miss Carstairs’ good friend,” Risk said kindly,
throwing the bundle on the table, “and so your doubts do you credit. You
are aware that she is in London?”
Colin jumped. Well, she had not been long in making use of the hundred
pounds! “I didn’t know,” he managed to say fairly steadily, and could
have asked many questions.
“She is staying with my sister,” continued Risk. “My sister was here a
few minutes ago. Sorry you did not meet. If you like, we shall call
upon her after dinner. But now as to Symington, I’m afraid I shall have
to ask you to make another night journey; only you need not start till
11.30, when you will find a sleeping berth on the train. Am I working
you too hard?”
“Rather not!” cried Colin. “But, Mr. Risk, I must not delay another
moment to show you this.” He produced the crumpled letter. “When you
have read it, I will answer any questions I can.”
Risk took the letter and started slightly.
“Hugh’s writing!” he murmured. He read carefully and without apparent
emotion. Having come to the end, he sighed and said softly: “Just tell
me all you can, Hayward.”
Colin made a brief and simple relation of his experience beside the
burning house. He also told what he knew of the Corries. His host heard
him out in silence—and thereafter remained in thought for a space.
Then he said: “You have raised a lot of questions, Hayward, but I must
try to put them in order before I ask them. Certainly we shall have
enough to talk about this evening, and I’m afraid we must postpone the
call upon my sister. In any case I don’t think we ought to bring Miss
Carstairs into the business before we cannot avoid doing so. I have
learned that she has no knowledge of the purchase of Zeniths by her
father. It would be a pity to excite or alarm her unnecessarily. At the
same time, this letter of Corrie’s in itself proves nothing against the
man. I am not in Miss Carstairs’ confidence, and my sister has not felt
at liberty so far to tell me what the girl has confided to her; but I
can’t help suspecting, after what you have told me, that Miss Carstairs
was not particularly happy in Dunford, and that she may possibly have run
away.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Colin almost inaudibly.
“Only,” continued the other, “I am loth to believe that she had so little
common sense to attempt London with nothing in her purse and no friends
in view—for you have given me to understand that such was her position.
Isn’t that so?” he asked, with a keen glance at his guest.
Colin felt himself reddening.
“Look here,” Risk said pleasantly, “won’t you help me by being open with
me? I’m the older man, and I’ve been pretty frank with you. The fuller
the confidence between us, the better we shall work together. Now I do
not doubt for a moment that you were honestly surprised to hear of Miss
Carstairs being in London—”
“So soon,” added Colin, before he could prevent himself.
“You mean?”
“Mr. Risk,” cried the young man, half-angry, half-amused, “you would get
the truth out of any one! Well, I’ll trust you; but she must never
know.” And he confessed to sending Kitty the hundred pounds.
“And how much had you for your own needs when you arrived in London?” was
the first question from Risk.
“Fifteen odds. But, you know, I couldn’t have taken the money for
myself.”
The host’s smile was kindly. “I doubt whether you are going to be a
great worldly success, Hayward,” he said, “but I’m sure you are on the
right road to happiness.”
Colin gave his head a rueful shake. “Please understand,” he said shyly,
“that there’s nothing between Miss Carstairs and me except a little
ordinary friendship.”
“Thank you for telling me about the money,” said Risk, in a more
business-like tone. “Now as to this letter, what is your suggestion?”
“That you keep it—in your safe—for the present, Mr. Risk.”
A slight frown contracted the older man’s brow. “It is a horrible
thing,” he remarked, “to be retaining another man’s property, and yet I
think the circumstances will excuse, though I still hope they may not
justify, the action. You see, if Mr. Corrie is innocent, we are doing
him a great wrong; if he is guilty—well, we are depriving him of a rope
to hang himself with. On the whole, I think you ought to call on him
to-morrow morning and hand him back the letter—which I shall keep until
it is time for you to start.”
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Colin, aghast.
“And you need not trouble about Mr. Symington for the present. Let us
assume them both innocent until we can prove them guilty.”
“But Kit—Miss Carstairs’ fortune!”
“Say the word, and I will hand over to you 5,000 of my own shares to hold
until you are satisfied that I am dealing fairly with her interests.”
Colin said nothing.
“I had hoped you were going to trust me,” the other murmured.
“Mr. Risk,” cried the young man distractedly, “put yourself in my place!
What would you do?”
“I’d at least think over it,” Risk replied cheerfully. “I’ll give you
half an hour. I have an engagement now—with a photographer, of all
people—and I’m sure you would like a bath and a change of linen after
those journeyings. My man will look after you.” He pressed a
bell-button on the table. “And while you are thinking over it, please
keep remembering this: that there is only one right way of doing a
thing—which is my way!” He laughed and extended his hand. Then he
became grave. “Hugh Carstairs once rendered a great service to my mother
when she was abroad and alone. He is dead, but I remember always. And
if any man tries to rob Hugh Carstairs’ daughter, and cheat Hugh in his
grave—then God help that man! He shall not escape me!”
The servant opened the door and stood at attention. Knowing not what to
think, Colin rose and passed out.
* * * * *
At the same hour Hilda Risk was ascending to her flat in Long Acre. On
the second landing she came to an abrupt stop. She had walked from her
brother’s home, intending to make a purchase on the way—and had forgotten
all about it. “Trying to think of too many things at once,” she
reprimanded herself, and retraced her steps.
As she emerged upon the street she almost collided with a man apparently
about to enter. He drew back with a muttered apology, and she passed on
her way with a vague feeling of having seen him before. He had a sharp,
rather pinched countenance, small dark moustache, and his bowler hat was
decidedly shabby. So much she noticed. Then she dismissed the matter,
proceeded on her errand, returned home to find Kitty happy at the
typewriter, but happier still to see her, and settled down to some
journalistic work which was to keep her busy most of the evening. As for
the man, he made for Covent Garden telegraph office.
In the middle of the night, being wakeful, she had an odd recollection of
the pinched face under the shabby bowler. And now she remembered where
she had seen the man before. Why, only half an hour had elapsed between
the first and second encounter! For she had noticed him on the opposite
pavement as she was leaving Aberdare Mansions.
“The beast followed me!” she thought suddenly.