ONE morning, about a week later, John Risk on his arrival in the City,
found his sister waiting in his private office.
“I’m ordered to Newcastle to-morrow, for a couple of days,” she informed
him. “What am I to do about Kitty? Naturally, she’d imagine all sorts
of things if I told her she must not leave the flat during my absence,
and I can hardly afford to tell the editor I don’t—”
“You can take her with you, Hilda. Why not make a little holiday of it,
and when you’ve finished the job at Newcastle, take a week by the sea
somewhere? You’ve had no break this summer. You’re looking a bit
fagged. Of course I’ll stand the racket.”
“Dear old thing, I don’t believe I can refuse!” she cried.
“Good! I’ll post you a cheque before midday. But now I must ask you to
run away. This is my busy morning. By the way, you can tell Miss Kitty
that the play is going on almost immediately. West caved in last night,
and agreed to take his share, and, as luck would have it, —’s recent
venture has turned out a frost, and the theatre is available—”
“John! how many thousands is this going to cost you?”
“None, I think. I believe in the play. However, that’s none of your
business. You don’t think any the less of West for taking his share?”
“No, indeed! Besides Kitty forced him by declaring she would not have
the play go on at all, if he refused.—Well, I’m off,” said Hilda rather
hurriedly, and with some colour in her cheeks.
“One moment. You haven’t been followed by that man, have you?” he
inquired.
“No. Why do you ask? I’d have told you.”
“So you would, my dear. Symington is in town at present, and I happen to
know he has been selling more shares.”
“Oh! . . . But, John, isn’t it time to act?”
“Very nearly, I hope. That’s all, Hilda. Good luck to your holiday.”
She kissed him and went out. A slight frown crossed his forehead for a
moment. Then he pressed one of several buttons on his desk.
Colin entered. He had a letter in his hand.
“May I speak first, Mr. Risk? I’ve been waiting to show you this.” He
handed over the letter; it was from the superintendent of the hospital
where Sam the postman lay.
“Ah!” exclaimed Risk, “this is what was wanted! ‘The operation on the
skull has been successful,’ he read, ‘and the patient is now well enough
to give you a short interview.’ . . . Hayward, you must go North by the
first train, learn all you can, and instruct him to hold his tongue for
the present.”
“I can catch the 11.30 train,” said Colin, who was already acquiring the
decisive ways of his friend and employer, “and may be there in time to
see him to-night. You wish me to return at once?”
“I want you to take in Dunford on your way back and get me one or two
photos. I’ll give you a note of what I require along with the camera.
But that needn’t take you more than a couple of hours. Don’t you want to
look up your people?”
“They’re all from home this month—thank you for thinking of it. I ought
to tell you that my father and I have made it up—through the post.”
“That’s right! Now, before you go, will you do me a rough sketch of the
postman’s house before it was burned—that is, a drawing of the front,
showing door, windows, etc., as correctly proportioned as you can make
them. Jot the colourings at the side. . . . One thing more: you might
break your return journey at Newcastle, for an hour or so. My sister and
Miss Carstairs will be there to-morrow. I’ll wire you where to find them
to the hospital this afternoon.”
Colin felt grateful, but merely returned a “Very well, Mr. Risk,” and he
hastened to his own office to get through the work on hand. The request
for a sketch of Sam’s old house puzzled him, as did the photographic
business, but he possessed the valuable wit for knowing when to suppress
questions.
Risk immediately plunged into a small ocean of correspondence. He had an
extraordinary number of financial interests, and they really interested
him apart from their finance. . . .
A secretary entered.
“Mr. Boon, of the Westminster Film Co., is here, sir. He has an
appointment with you.”
Risk glanced at the clock. “In two minutes,” he said, returning to the
correspondence, “show him in.”
The secretary knew by this time that two minutes to Mr. Risk meant
exactly 120 seconds and on the 121st Mr. Boon was admitted. His visit
lasted about fifteen minutes.
Before he left he was introduced to Colin, with whom he had a few
minutes’ conversation, which was probably more enlightening to himself
than to the young man; and he took away with him the rude sketch of the
Dunford postman’s abode.
Rather late in the evening Colin, by special permission, was sitting at
Sam’s bedside. The postman was still weak, and the nurse had warned the
visitor against anything in the way of excitement, but his memory was
clear enough, and there was not, after all, a great deal to be
remembered. Colin was soon in possession of the few facts worth having;
they formed, at least, a valuable little appendix to Kitty’s story. As
to his assailant on the night of the fire, Sam frankly admitted that he
had nothing better than suspicions to offer; yet he was convinced that
the house had been deliberately set on fire, and that he had been
assaulted in his weakness either by Corrie, or Symington, or both.
But Sam was not greatly interested in his own affairs. Time enough to
think of punishment and revenge when he was on his feet again, he
declared. He wanted to hear about Kitty.
Colin did his best to oblige him, leaving out, of course, all reference
to Symington’s last outbreak, and explaining that Kitty was not yet aware
of her old friend’s misfortune and illness.
“Quite right, quite right,” said Sam. “So long as she’s in good health,
and wi’ kind friends, I’m content. And before long I’ll be getting the
letter ye say she wrote me, just after she got to London. Ye see, we
couldna trust Corrie, and she would send it to Peter Hart, the shepherd,
in the next postal district.”
“I’m going to tell her simply that you’ve had an accident,” said Colin,
“so you may expect a new letter from her immediately. . . . Now I see
the nurse looking at me, and I suppose my time is up. But I must tell
you, from Mr. Risk, that your house will be rebuilt, and ready for you by
the time you are ready for it. Not a word, Sam! It’s no use arguing
with Mr. Risk, I know! . . . Well, I must go. Keep everything a secret
for the present.”
Sam clung to the young man’s hand. “Tell her,” he whispered, “to look
out for Symington. Tell her the news o’ her has done me a power o’ good.
Good luck to ye, Mr. Colin—good luck to ye both.”
Colin hurried to the inn, wrote a letter, and just managed to catch the
late night mail for the south. The letter would reach Risk by the second
morning delivery. Then he re-read the telegram he had found waiting for
him at the hospital. It seemed to give him pleasant thoughts, for he
smiled. It was from Hilda, and invited him to take tea the following
afternoon in the Station Hotel, Newcastle.
Next morning he stepped from the early train at Dunford. In order to
turn aside any local curiosity, he went straight to his father’s house,
and got the caretaker to give him breakfast, explaining that he had
called on his way to London to collect one or two small articles from his
old room. Thereafter he strolled around with his hand-camera and secured
some “souvenir snapshots,” as he put it to an interested villager. In
the course of his stroll he recorded—surreptitiously, it should be
remarked—a view of the back of Corrie’s cottage, and another of the scene
immediately in front of Sam’s ruined dwelling.
Passing the post office on the way to the station, he obtained a glimpse
of Corrie talking to a farmer in the doorway. Though he detested the man
with all his soul, he was tempted to make room for a little pity, so
haggard and wretched was the postmaster’s appearance. Corrie, after a
slight start, gave a perfunctory wave of salutation, which Colin, feeling
a hypocrite, returned.
By noon he was in the train again, counting the miles to Newcastle.
Within half an hour of the train’s leaving Dunford, Corrie dispatched a
telegram to Symington—“Left at 11.50.”
About the same hour in London, a message was flashed North to greet our
traveller with a great disappointment. He had to change at Carlisle; and
as he was boarding the Newcastle train there, his heart full of Kitty,
hope struggling once more against resignation, an official carrying an
orange envelope came along inquiring for “a Mr. Colin Hayward.” And
presently Colin was reading Risk’s message—
“Urgent. Return straight to London.”
There was just time to rush back to the express train he had so recently
left. Afterwards there was more than enough time for wonder and worry.