ON the third evening following that of Kitty’s disappearance, Risk was
reading a letter which the last post had just brought him. The letter
was from Anthony West, and the important part of it ran as follows:—
“I have now completed the arrangements according to your
instructions. The town is only twenty miles from Dunford, and the
road between is excellent. Besides, the moon will oblige on the
night appointed. I am no judge of cars, but think I have engaged the
sort you require. . . . I saw the postman yesterday. He is fairly
on the mend now, but worrying at not hearing from Miss Kitty.
Herewith three snapshots of him, taken while sitting on the hospital
veranda. By the way, I gathered that he would not seek to lift a
finger against Corrie without Kitty’s permission. . . . Corrie is a
hard nut. He takes me for a friend of Kitty’s late father, and I
have allowed him to think that my first inquiry was prompted more by
a belated sense of duty than by any real interest in the girl. I
dropped into the post-office about closing time last night, and found
him less disinclined to talk. He said nothing directly against his
niece, merely remarking that in the face of his advice she had gone
to London, where she had friends, and that while she had not yet
written, he hoped he might be able to hand me her address before
long. To extract truth from such a person will take a bit of doing.
The sister, I learn from the gossips, has been ill, though not
seriously so, for the last few days. I should add that Corrie goes
about saying that the burning of his mill was a piece of foul play.
A man told me to-day that it was not insured. . . . No word of
Symington. He has not been seen in Dunford for more than a week. As
far as I can gather, no one would regret his permanent absence. . . .
I see Zeniths have jumped to £8. Do you still say they are worth
£12? I almost wish I had taken your advice, and pawned my shirt! . .
. Well, I am looking forward to our meeting here on Thursday with
pleasure, not to say curiosity. What’s the game, I wonder? But,
perhaps, you will have found Kitty and Colin before then—God make it
so . . . ”
* * * * *
Risk laid the letter on the table, placed the snapshots in an envelope,
directed it, and rang for his man.
“Sharp, take a taxi and deliver this to Mr. Boon. Say I’m sorry it comes
a little late, but that he must get his men to work harder. Tell him to
spare neither men nor money. There must be no failure to-night. I am
going out presently. If I’m late, don’t wait up. Pack my bag for one
night; include both my revolvers. Call me at eight; breakfast at nine;
and a taxi for nine-thirty.”
An hour later Risk was at the flat in Long Acre.
“This won’t do, Hilda,” he said kindly. “You’re not going to help
matters by breaking down. Have you been out to-day?”
“No. I feel now that I daren’t leave the flat in case she should come
back—perhaps with that beast after her—poor little soul. Oh, John, I
sometimes think it was all my fault. I should not have left her alone
that night—”
“Nonsense! If it comes to that, I am to blame, for I might have
foreseen. . . . But you’ll soon have her with you again, Hilda!”
“Have you news?” she cried eagerly.
He gave her West’s letter, saying: “You can look at it afterwards. No; I
can’t say I have news, but in a few hours I shall be ready to act. That
wretched Corrie shall tell me where his niece and Hayward are.”
“Are you sure?” All at once she put her hands on his shoulders, and
looked searchingly into his face. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “you can’t
hide it—you’re afraid of something!”
“Yes,” he said at last with sudden weariness, “I’m afraid.” Next moment
he drew himself up. “But that’s because, like you, I’m tired out. A few
hours’ sleep will make all the difference to both of us. Won’t you come
back with me and stay the night? I hate leaving you here.”
She shook her head. “I imagine if she came in the middle of the night—”
“Try not to imagine things, my dear. And I’ll just spend the night here.
This couch will do. Ask your maid to knock me up at seven. And go
straight off to bed yourself. How’s that?”
“Oh, you good brother!” she cried softly. “I was wondering how I was
going to get through another night alone!”
Soon she retired, a little more hopeful, and ere long was in a sleep of
sheer exhaustion.
But for Risk, wearied as he was, there was scarcely any rest. He was
desperately anxious. He could not conceive of Symington daring actually
to injure the girl; but what if the man struck at her through his other
victim? Risk groaned at the thought. He went to the window, and threw
it wide to the still, mild night. Ah, it was no longer a game he was
engaged in, but a business most terribly serious, vital to the future
peace of his soul. For he loved—no need to deny it to the stars—he loved
Kitty Carstairs . . . and a lover’s insight had informed him that, sooner
or later, her heart would turn to Colin Hayward, who had put faith and
trust in him, who regarded him as benefactor, aye, and true friend. So
he had his honour as well as his love to serve in smashing the enemy.
Yet, had Colin not come to London, what might not have happened? . . .
At last he tore himself from the night and his sorry dreams, and lay
down, not to sleep, but grimly to rehearse, in minutest detail, all that
he had planned for the morrow. And every now and then he was interrupted
by a Dread.
* * * * *
Another was rehearsing a plan that still, mild night. In a small room,
furnished with odds and ends, sat Symington. The atmosphere was
unpleasant with cigar reek and whisky fumes. Since his tremendous bout
of dissipation the man had somehow failed to regain the mastery in
respect of alcohol. Yet he was far from being intoxicated. Apart from
the plan itself two things were especially clear to his intelligence.
First, Zeniths had boomed to 8¼; second, he had less than £20 on hand.
It would be necessary to convert another certificate into cash at the
earliest moment possible. He was tempted to convert them all into cash
at the present magnificent price; only greed to obtain yet more
restrained him.
“Nothing for it,” he thought, “but to travel to-morrow night, after. . .
Unless—why, the thing might be done to-night! No, no! Steady! Don’t be
a fool and spoil everything by rushing it! If her mind is not
sufficiently prepared, and if he doesn’t look sufficiently—” Breaking
off, he rang the bell at the side of the fireplace.
The woman with the red, expressionless face answered the summons.
“How is the lady now?” he asked curtly.
“Sleeping at last, but she’s restless. I doubt she won’t sleep long.”
Her pale eyes avoided his. “Though I don’t know what you may be after,
Mr. Granton,” the hard mouth said slowly, “I take the liberty of warning
you not to carry it too far—”
“Mind your own business, and clear out. Send your man to me.”
“No offence intended, but I doubt she hasn’t eaten a bite to-day,” said
the woman, and went out. Her humanity was not equal to the grand wages
she was getting.
Symington sighed, took a drink and muttered: “Poor Kitty! Perhaps we may
get it over to-night, after all.”
A huge lout of a man, with a red beard and a bald head, shuffled in.
“Well, how is he now?”
“Not much change. Looking peaked a bit. But he made a joke when he said
good night. Expect he’ll feel a goodish bit worse by to-morrow.”
Symington considered. “When you go downstairs,” he said at last, “you
will take away the water and give him none to-morrow.”
“What? No water, Mr. Granton?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, but surely that’s a bit—”
“Are you going to obey or not?”
The man lifted his shoulders. “All right, Mr. Granton, it’s no affair of
mine. Only—”
“Get out!”
The man shuffled away. He had an ugly past known to his employer.
Symington cursed under his breath. “No good for to-night. Poor
Kitty—it’s a pity, but I can’t help it. Well, to-morrow night ought to
settle it, and if not, I can wait. . . . But I might have gone North
to-night, lifted the stuff, and got back here under twenty-four hours.
Why the blazes didn’t I think of that?” His eyes roved as if in search
of an answer, and lighted on the decanter. He glowered at it, and a
flush, almost purple, overran his countenance. “Damn you,” he suddenly
shouted, “it was you that kept me!” And, snatching it from the table, he
hurled it across the room so that it burst into fragments against the
wall. There was a breathless pause till he asked in a frightened
whisper, “What the devil made me do that . . . made me do that?” He went
to bed without finishing the drink in the tumbler.