“YOU bungler!”
Mr. Symington’s countenance was sickly; his voice was full of cold and
bitter disgust.
The wretched Corrie had come to the end of his sorry confession, not
without interruptions mainly of an angry, abusive nature. And now the
verdict—“You bungler!” Somehow it stung most of all.
“It’s easy to call names,” he rejoined resentfully. “I’m no’ the only
bungler. If ever a man let a girl slip through his fingers it was you.
Ye should ha’ had her easy that night—while she was terrified—after she
had taken the post office money—”
“I don’t believe she took any money—”
“Then how could she pay her fare to London?”
“Probably the postman lent—gave—her it.”
The postmaster forced a grin. “Well, ye can believe that if ye like.
And then,” he went on quickly, “ye had your chance in the train—and lost
it!”
“I’ve told you why.”
“Well, if ye had got the girl, the letter wouldna ha’ mattered so much,
for ye would ha’ got the Zeniths wi’ her. So ye can blame yourself as
well as me.”
There was a silence. Corrie sat glowering at the floor and plucking at
his lower lip. Symington scowled openly at him. They were in the
privacy of the parlour. It was about nine o’clock and growing dark.
Suddenly Symington emitted a short, ugly laugh. “So this is what you
brought me back from London for! Well, I don’t wonder at your being
afraid. Between embezzlement and attempted murder—”
“Whisht, man, for God’s sake!”
“It may be murder itself yet—”
“Be quiet, damn ye!”
“Look here, Corrie; what’ll you do if Sam recovers?”
“He canna recover—I heard it an hour before ye arrived. But supposing he
does recover, what can he do without the letter?”
“You’re perfectly sure he didn’t spot you?”
“Aye; I’m sure—and I’m almost sure young Hayward didna’ recognize me.”
“Otherwise you wouldna be sitting here now—eh?”
“Let that pass,” said Corrie, restraining his temper. “The point is—the
letter.”
“But I don’t happen to be interested in the letter.”
“Ye’ve got to be interested in it! If I canna get back the letter, I’ll
need to get back the shares.”
“I’m afraid you won’t get back the shares.”
Corrie exploded. “Would ye ruin me—send me to the jail?”
Symington ignored the outburst. “I bought the shares from you,” he said
calmly, “and paid for them. I have your acknowledgment. I may say that
I intend to hold them till September, when a first dividend will be
declared, which, I am informed, will send them to ten pounds—”
“Ten pound! Fifty thousand for the lot!” gasped Corrie.
“Just so. But rather than risk being involved in your dirty affairs,
I’ll sell the lot to-morrow for what I can get and—er—emigrate.”
“Ye swine!—but ye’ll ha’ the police after ye!”
“Why?”
Corrie rose, sat down again, and writhed in his impotence.
“I might have the lawyers after me,” Symington admitted easily, “but the
lawyers always take a —— of a time to get to work, and I generally travel
quickly. However, I think you’re making too much of your own danger.
Kitty is not likely to attempt to prosecute you, since you can prove that
she tampered with the post office money.” He peered through the dusk at
the other’s face. “Isn’t that so?”
“Aye, that’s so,” Corrie managed to reply. He was caught in the toils of
his own making.
After a little while Symington said: “Why don’t you make Kitty come back
here?”
Corrie started, then dropped his gaze. “How can I do that when I dinna
ken where she is?”
Symington took out the telegram he had found on his arrival.
“Is that her address?” cried the other.
“It may be. It is certainly the address of the lady who took charge of
her on the train, and now that I’ve got it, I’ll soon find where Kitty
is.”
“How did ye get it?”
“Never mind. But it might be worth your while to send a wire, first
thing in the morning to Kitty, at this address. Just say: ‘Serious for
you if not home within twenty-four hours’ . . . How’s that?”
Corrie groaned. “She wouldna come. . . . Maybe she’s seen the letter by
this time.”
“Maybe she hasn’t. It’s a chance anyway—your only chance, perhaps. Will
you wire—put it stronger if you like—in the morning?”
“I—I tell ye, she wouldna come.”
Symington got to his feet. “I believe,” he said slowly, “it was a filthy
lie about the post office money.”
Corrie shrank in his chair. He was at the end of his endurance. “I did
it,” he stammered “to help you.”
“Did what?”
“P—put the five-pun’ note in her drawer.”
“God damn you!” cried Symington, raising his fist. “You did it to help
yourself to half the—” He stopped short with a stifled curse.
Miss Corrie came in with a lighted lamp, which she set on the table.
“Are ye quarrelling?” she quavered. She seemed to have grown ten years
older during the past forty-eight hours.
Symington strode by her, but halted in the doorway.
“I’m going back to London to-morrow,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want
any more wires from you.” Thereupon he went out.
Rachel turned to her brother.
“John, John,” she cried piteously, “will he no’ help ye?”
The unhappy man threw out his arms, let them fall on the edge of the
table and bowed his face on them. Helplessly his sister regarded him,
then turned and left him to himself. She went to her room and fell on
her knees. Had Kitty appeared in that hour, one may presume that she
would have been offered the miserable confession of a miserable sinner.
But there is an old saying concerning the devil when he was sick. . . .
* * * * *
Shortly, after eight the following morning, Colin, carrying a light
overcoat and a small suitcase, entered the post office. The dingy place
was flooded with sunlight; even the passage to the shop was filled with
it. The counter was unattended. Upon it Colin laid the suitcase and
coat. Raising the lid he disclosed among sundry articles pertaining to a
lengthy night journey a little box camera. For a moment or two he
fingered it somewhat nervously. Then at the back—i.e., the bottom—of the
case he drew aside a strip of leather, uncovering a small round hole
against which he fitted the eye of the camera. He let down the lid so
far: it was kept from closing by his left hand which remained inside.
Presently, drawing a long breath, he rapped smartly on the counter.
Almost immediately Miss Corrie appeared in the short passage. At the
sight of him she seemed to stumble, and as she recovered herself he said—
“Can I see Mr. Corrie for a moment?”
Without answering she turned and went back. It seemed many minutes
before Corrie himself appeared. Colin thought he had never seen a more
ghastly-looking creature. The countenance was unreadable, but the man’s
soul was torn between terror and hope.
As he stepped into the office there was a scarcely audible click from the
suit-case.
“Morning,” he said huskily, and ran his tongue over his lips.
“Morning, Mr. Corrie,” replied Colin, fairly cheerfully. He raised the
lid and brought forth a sealed envelope without superscription. He
handed it over the counter, saying, “You might look and see if the paper
enclosed belongs to you.”
Corrie took it with shaking fingers and moved back from the counter. He
cleared his throat. “Ye mean me to open it, Mr. Hayward?”
“Certainly,” Colin could have pitied the man as he turned a second film
silently into position.
The envelope was very firmly gummed, and Corrie’s fingers fumbled in a
fashion painful to witness. But at last it was torn open—the precious
letter was in his hand. He looked as if he were going to cry. Now the
click might have been ten times louder without his hearing it. He was
dazed with relief.
Colin closed the case, feeling almost guilty.
“Is it yours, Mr. Corrie?”
Corrie seemed to pull himself together. “Aye, it’s mine, sure enough,
and—and I’m obliged to ye, Mr. Hayward.” The old cunning came to his
aid. “I lost it more’n a week ago. Might I ask where ye found it?”
“On the grass across the road from the postman’s house, while it was
burning,” answered Colin, as naturally as he could.
“Well, well! That’s mysterious, for it’s more’n a month since I was that
road, except the morning after the fire. Somebody mun ha’ found it and
lost it again. Well, once more, I’m obliged to ye, though the paper’s
no’ o’ any great consequence. It was written by my poor brother-in-law
when he wasna quite right in his head. Still, I’m glad to have it, Mr.
Hayward, thank ye.”
“I should explain,” said Colin, concealing with an effort his disgust,
“that after I picked it up I forgot about it until I was in the train for
London. Good morning, Mr. Corrie.” He caught up case and coat, and
hurried out before Corrie could frame another sentence.
“Rachel!—here, quick!”
She came in haste, almost weeping.
“Oh, John, John, ha’ ye got it back?”
“Aye,” he answered shortly, with something of his old truculence of tone.
“Oh, God be thanked!” she murmured.
“Ye’ll ha’ to manage by yourself for an hour,” he said rapidly, “I mun
hurry to White Farm—”
“But now, John, ye’ll tell Kitty the truth,” she cried excitedly. “I got
her address this morning. I can trust ye wi’ it now, for ye’re a changed
man, as I’m a changed woman—”
“What’s the address?”
“366 Long Acre, London—care o’ Miss Risk.”
“I’ll mind it. Well, I mun run, or I’ll miss Symington. I’ll master him
yet—aye, I will that, by God!”
“But ye—ye’ll tell Kitty the truth, John—ye’ll write to her this very
day—will ye no’?” she caught his arm.
“Pah!” he shook her off. “Let me gang, woman! Well, well. I’ll see.
I’ll see.”
Alone—“God!” she whispered, “is he no’ a changed man after all?”
Symington was at breakfast when Corrie broke in upon him.
“What the devil do you want?” was the spurious farmer’s greeting.
“I’ve got back the letter?”
“Sit down and don’t make a scene,” said Symington, after a moment. “Tell
me about it quietly. And look here, Corrie; I was a bit rough on you last
night—”
“Ye were that! But now it’s my turn—”
“One moment. I had good cause for my annoyance—you must admit that much.
But after I left you, I thought it over in cold blood, and came to the
only conclusion possible. You and I must continue to work together; we
must stick to the original bargain—”
“Ye’ll mean that ye’ll try to marry her yet and pay me half the profits—”
“Exactly! Now tell me about the letter.”
Under this coolness Corrie’s violence collapsed. He seated himself,
saying: “But can I trust ye to keep a’ I said last night secret?”
“We have got to trust each other, Corrie. Let us forget about last
night. . . . Now go ahead.”
By the end of the postmaster’s brief recital Symington’s brows were
contracted.
“It’s a puzzler,” he remarked. “I should say that Hayward returned the
letter for one of two reasons: either he hadn’t read it through, or else
he wants to stand well with you on account of Kitty. What do you think?”
Corrie shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, but ’twill do
neither of us good if he comes across her in London—”
“How do you know he’s going back there?”
“I canna’ say for certain, but I’ve heard o’ talk among the servants that
there was trouble with his father the other night.”
“Possible,” Symington grinned and became grave. “Then what’s he doing
back here?”
“Ye beat me there. But if ye want advice, it’s just this: get a hold o’
the girl without delay. That’s the only way now to make absolute sure o’
the Zeniths. I can give ye her address for certain.”
“Well, I’m hanged!”
“My sister got it this morning. Write it down, will ye?”
“It’s just as I thought,” said Symington, a moment later, “but I’m
obliged to you, Corrie. And, as you say, it’s the only way to make sure
of the Zeniths without risking trouble. I’ll go south to-night.”
“How are ye going to get a hold o’ her? Ye’ve got to mind she’s wi’
friends—at least I suppose so.”
“You can leave that to me. Kitty won’t escape me a third time! I wonder
if she’s much in love with that fellow Hayward. Well, if she is, I’ll
make use of the fact.”
“I’d give something to ha’ him out o’ the road,” said Corrie, with sudden
viciousness. “I’ve been thinkin’ he maybe kens more’n he’s shown. If
Sam was to get better after a’—”
“Don’t start brooding on that!” said Symington shortly. “By the way,
have you destroyed the letter?”
“No, I’m going to keep it—safely this time.”
“Why on earth—”
Corrie glared at his fellow-conspirator. “I intend to trust ye,
Symington,” he said slowly. “Same time, I warn ye, if ye try to get the
better o’ me, I’ll take the risk o’ handing the letter to Kitty Carstairs
and telling her the whole cursed story.”
For an instant Symington’s gaze was murderous. Then he laughed. “Canny
man, canny man!” he sneered. “If Kitty would forgive you—well, let that
pass. Meantime, I want the loan of twenty pounds. There ought to have
been a registered letter for me this morning. If it comes to-morrow, you
must re-direct it to London. Now I’ll walk down to the shop with you and
get the cash.”
“All right,” said Corrie reluctantly, after a pause. “But ye mun be
careful what ye say before Rachel. I doubt if she’s on our side now.
Let her think ye’re considering about giving me back the Zeniths for the
girl. D’ye see?”
“Very well. Now that she’s got Kitty’s address she might easily make
trouble.”
“I wish,” said Corrie, as they went down the road, “I wish ye would tell
me how ye’re going to get a hold o’ her. Ha’ ye got a plan?”
“Perhaps I have.” Symington smiled darkly, and changed the subject.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Colin was seated in an exceedingly slow train on his way to the
hospital where Sam the postman lay.
Afterwards he would go on to Glasgow, and thence hack to London by a line
that did not pass near Dunford. In this he was simply obeying the
instructions of Mr. Risk.