THAT nearly a fortnight should have passed without any effort on
Symington’s part to “get a hold” of Kitty may seem to the reader to
require some explanation. Possibly sufficient will be found in a
conversation between Risk and Colin, which took place on the twelfth day
after the latter’s call on the postmaster of Dunford. Colin had returned
from Scotland, only to be dispatched, within a few hours, to an address
in Amsterdam with a belt full of finely broken bottle glass next his
skin, which he believed to be a fortune in uncut precious stones. Back
from Holland he found written mstructions to proceed to Madrid to fetch a
little box purporting to contain 3,000 sovereigns, and actually
concealing about half a hundredweight of lead.
And now, a trifle fagged, he was sitting in Risk’s study, hoping to hear
that he had done well. Risk did not keep him long in suspense. After a
few questions respecting the last journey he said, rather abruptly—
“Well, Hayward, you’ve been serving me so far pretty much with your eyes
shut: I wonder if you care to continue with your eyes open. I warn you
that some of the work may be dull and most of it will be hard. I have
got plenty of young men who work well in their own particular grooves,
but I want one who is prepared to take on any job I put before him, just
as I, with so many different interests, have had to do in the past for
myself. I don’t expect you to learn everything at once, but I should
expect you to be interested in everything that interests me. And I offer
you £500 for the first year.”
Colin almost leapt from his seat. “£500, Mr. Risk! Why, I’ll never be
worth that!”
“You’ll think differently six months hence. Meantime, do you accept?”
“Oh, rather!—and thank you a—”
“Then let’s talk of something else. For instance, I have word that your
friend the postman has a chance of recovering, and I have to tell you
about our friend Symington.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said Colin, “whether he accepted your invitation
to call at the office.”
“He did—the morning after you left for Amsterdam. Incidentally, I got
rather a good snap-shot of him. He seemed a trifle nervous until he
received the new certificates, and then he coolly informed the secretary
that he had purchased the old ones six years ago—an unmitigated lie, as
we know. It remains to be seen, of course, whether he is acting for
himself or for Corrie, and if the former, how many of the 5,000 shares
have come into his possession.”
“You can’t prevent him selling the shares?”
“I could do that by circularizing all the exchanges and brokers, but
sooner or later that would mean publicity. Besides, I want to give Mr.
Symington rope just as I’ve given it to Mr. Corrie.”
“It may prove awfully expensive rope, Mr. Risk,” ventured Colin.
“I’m ready to pay for my amusement,” the other pleasantly returned, “and
you don’t want me to tell you again that I will replace every share it
may cost Miss Carstairs.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Colin. “Only—well, you have been so good to
me that I’d hate to see you lose—”
“Money! Yes, but think of the game, Hayward! And we’re going to win
that. Why, it’s going to be the most tremendously interesting business I
ever tackled. You don’t mind danger, do you?”
Colin laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve had no experience, but I’m at your
service, Mr. Risk. I suppose,” he went on, “Symington has already
converted some of the 500 shares into cash.”
“We may assume that much. To put it mildly, he has been on the spree
since the day he got the new certificates.”
“You have had him watched?”
Risk nodded. “And I have gone into his past to some extent. He is not a
desirable person, I fear. But we shall leave him for the present. My
sister and Miss Carstairs, also your friend West, are dining with me
to-night, and I hope you are free to join us.”
Colin flushed with pleasure.
“I should like you,” continued Risk, “to make your quarters here for the
present. Sharp has a room ready for you. And now I’m going to ask you
an impertinent question. Have you any debts?”
“No—well, I owe my father £100,” the young man replied ruefully.
“Then pay it; and if you think you have any grudge against him, forget
it. For this year I will pay your salary quarterly, in advance. Don’t
thank me. I simply want you to be able to serve me with as free a mind,
and as light a heart, as possible. Frankly, you’re an experiment.” With
a kindly laugh Risk proceeded to write a cheque.
It was no shame to Colin then if his eyes were moist. Surely his father
would think kindlier of him now.
An hour later he and Kitty were face to face. Ages long it seemed since
their parting in the little wood, less than three weeks ago! How much
had happened since then! Perhaps Kitty was more at her ease than he.
She had slipped into the new, pleasant life as though she belonged to it.
She was still a little shy, but not awkwardly so. She had never been
“countrified,” yet Colin had always thought of her as a country maid—and
had loved her none the less for that. In sunlight and moonlight he had
deemed her the prettiest creature alive. But now, under the shaded
electric lamps of a London drawing-room in a white muslin frock that gave
glimpses of her neck and arms, he beheld her, and his faithful heart
ached at her fresh loveliness.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” she whispered, smiling, as they shook hands.
Poor Colin! He managed to smile in return, but not a word could he find,
for in that moment he realized that he loved her more than ever, and that
if his love had been wellnigh hopeless before, it was utterly hopeless
now. For with all his resolutions to put her out of his life on coming
to London, he had indulged a dream of fighting for success in order that
he might one day rescue her from dreariness or hardship, and somehow win
her for his own. Alas, now he comprehended only too fully what the
Zeniths meant to himself. Kitty would be a very rich young woman. He
could serve her in nothing at all. What an irony that the man who had
given him his first step upwards—and a great step, too—should be the man
to set his dearest desire beyond his reach! Well, there was nothing for
it but to cleave to duty and have done with dreams.
Nevertheless it was a cheerful little dinner-party, and during it the
love-lorn young man and Hilda Risk laid the foundations of a lasting
friendship. Towards the close of the repast Kitty was telling the host
of her father’s unfinished novel which Mr. West had just completed.
“He did it in six days, Mr. Risk,” she said warmly, “and I could not have
told that it was not my father’s own work. It was wonderful.”
“Not at all,” said West, in his matter-of-fact voice. “There was next to
nothing for me to do, for the last act was foreshadowed. It’s a great
play, Risk. Craven of the _Planet_, whom I got to read it right away,
admitted as much this very day, though he wouldn’t accept it.”
“Why?” asked Risk.
“Too much unlike recent successes, I suppose,” said West drily. “And I
believe it would draw all London.”
“Miss Carstairs,” said Risk kindly, “wouldn’t you like to see your
father’s play performed?”
The girl’s shining eyes answered for her.
“I think I can persuade Craven,” remarked Risk, turning to West. “Can
you arrange a meeting between us for the day after to-morrow?”
“By jove!” said West softly. “The thing’s done! Miss Carstairs, take my
word for it, that play will bring you a little fortune. Risk, God bless
you!”
Kitty looked from one to the other. “Is it—is it really and truly going
to be?” she asked, tremulously.
“Leave it to Mr. Risk,” cried West in high delight.
“I think you may, Miss Carstairs,” Risk said with that amused look of
his. “But don’t count on the fortune just yet. Still, I’ll make the
best terms I can for you—”
“And Mr. West,” she put in quickly. “Please don’t think me ungrateful
and horrid, Mr. Risk, but I don’t wish you to—to trouble about the play
at all unless Mr. West promises—on paper, too—to take half the profits—if
any.”
“Never!” shouted West, indignant.
“Goodness me,” said Hilda, interrupting her talk with Colin, “what on
earth is the matter, Anthony?”
“Nothing, my dear,” replied her brother. “Merely Anthony’s little way of
receiving a decent business proposition.” He turned to Kitty. “Never
mind, Miss Carstairs; we three shall have a talk together later, and—”
Sharp came into the room with a note on a salver.
“Messenger boy brought it, sir; said it was immediate,” he murmured to
his master, as he presented the salver to Kitty. “No answer, madam,” he
said aloud, and retired.
Kitty had taken the note mechanically, but now as she sat staring at it,
the colour ebbed from her face. The plain envelope was directed to
her—in rather shaky writing—care of Miss Risk, 366 Long Acre; apparently
Hilda’s servant had sent the messenger on to Aberdare Mansions.
Anthony West alone made any effort to sustain the conversation, but then
he was the only person present to whom the incident appeared ordinary,
and he, too, soon fell silent at the sight of the girl’s pallor.
At last the host said gently: “Hadn’t you better open it, Miss Carstairs?
It may be nothing so very serious after all.”
Kitty seemed to nerve herself; she even smiled faintly—as she tore away
the flap. She took out a piece of ruled paper folded once—a page torn
from a note-book—opened it, and forced herself to read the two lines
scrawled upon it in pencil.
Then the paper fell from her fingers, and with a little cry of pain she
put up her hands and hid her face.