Fortunately for his stomach’s sake, at any rate, it was the weekly half-holiday, so that Mr. Corrie, having closed the shop at one, was free to relieve his sister in the post office and dispatch her to prepare, with all speed, something in the way of dinner. He was a little astonished at the eagerness with which she departed to do his bidding.

A minute later she was back, looking as though she had seen a ghost.

“John, where’s the paper?”

“What paper?”

“The morning paper. Quick!—what ha’ ye done wi’ it?”

He turned from the counter with a grunt of impatience. “Get my dinner ready and never heed about the paper! If ye want to ken, Zeniths dropped six-and-threepence yesterday—no’ that it matters to us now. Away wi’ ye and hurry up.”“John, for the love o’ God, tell me where the paper is!”

That startled him. “What the mischief’s wrong wi’ ye, woman?” he demanded, regarding her frowningly. “Sam, the postman, got the paper. There wasna another in the shop—”

For a moment’s space she gazed at him as though he had said something too awful for belief. Then, with a wail, she threw up her hands.

“It’s the beginning o’ the judgment!”

“What d’ye mean? Are ye daft?” He seized her roughly by the arm. “Speak!”

“The letter was inside the paper,” she moaned.

“The letter! What letter?”

“Hugh Carstairs’ letter about the shares. . . . I took it from the safe to read it. . . . When I heard ye coming to the kitchen I was feared, and I hid it in the paper. . . . I—I didna mean to betray ye, John, but—oh, dinna look at me like that!”

“Ye—!” he stormed, “ye’ve ruined me, damned me!” For an instant it seemed as though he would smite her, but he flung away, saying, “Get out o’ my sight! Ye’ve done for your brother!”

Yet, for all his passion, his mind was working quickly. He recalled her as she tottered through the shop.

“There’s just a chance he hasna opened it yet. Haste ye to his house and tell him ye want a sight o’ it for ten minutes. Make any excuse ye like, but gang quick.”

Willingly she went, poor soul, for with all her being she loved this brother of hers, contemptible thief though he was.

John Corrie lived a hideous age in the ten minutes that followed. Then Rachel returned with the paper in her hand, but everything else about her told him she had failed.

“John,” she said, “I’ll offer him every penny I possess”—she had laid by nearly two thousand pounds—“for the letter.”

As though he had not heard her he passed into the empty, semi-dark shop, and sank on a chair at the counter. He was weak and sick with dread.

She followed, and repeated her suggestion.

“Away!” he cried; “I mun think.”

Reluctantly she left him, and in the kitchen recovered herself sufficiently to set about preparing some strong tea.

An hour passed before he joined her, and started to pace the floor.“Ye read the letter?” he asked at last, abruptly, in a repressed voice.

She nodded, her mouth quivering.

“Ye ken what it means in the hands o’ an enemy—a friend o’ Hugh Carstairs’ daughter? . . . Jail!”

“Oh, John! . . . But he’ll maybe sell it to me.”

“Ye fool!”

Presently she said: “Sit down, dearie, and try a cup o’ tea. I’ve made it fresh for ye.”

He went on pacing. “And what about Symington?”

“If ye were to tell him the truth, maybe—”

“Ye fool!”

“But I was thinking,” she said meekly, “he might help ye for his own sake.”

“The only way he can help me is to marry your niece within the three months, getting her promise at once, of course. But—”

“Something maybe happened in the train last night,” she ventured. “Ye’ll be hearing from him in the morning.”

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “where she got the money to gang to London wi’.”

The woman’s hand went to her flat breast.“John, did she no’ take it from the post office, as ye said?”

“No,” was the sullen answer.

“Oh, John, John! . . . But ye’ve enough to bear now without me reproaching ye.” After a pause she continued: “She’ll ha’ to send Sam her address afore he can do anything wi’ the letter.”

“Aye; but they’re no’ such fools as to communicate wi’ each other through this office.”

She sighed helplessly.

“There’s somebody in the office,” he said suddenly. “I’ll—”

“Let me,” she interposed; “ye’re no’ fit. Take your tea till I come back.”

She was absent several minutes, and on her return she was cheered by seeing him at the table and the cup empty.

“Who was it, and what were ye doing in the shop?” he asked, more from habit than interest.

“It was Mr. Hayward—”

“Him! What was he wanting?”

“A notebook, and he was terrible particular about the size. He had a piece o’ paper with the measurements wrote on it.”

“Ye wouldna find anything fine enough to suit him.”“But I did. There was one left o’ the half-dozen that ye got once for Mr. Symington. He said it was the very thing. . . . Could ye no’ eat something?”

He was brooding again, and minutes passed ere he roused himself.

“That postman’s got me,” he muttered bitterly, “got me as never a man was got before. I’m cornered. He’ll hear from the girl to-morrow—they’ll ha’ planned about writing, ye can be sure—and then he’ll get to work wi’ the letter. God! I feel like making a bolt for it—but where can a man hide in these days o’ wireless telegrams and so forth.” All at once he turned on her snarling: “What for did ye interfere wi’ my private affairs?”

She winced and shuddered. “The Lord kens I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “And He kens I would do anything to help ye now. John, is there anything I can do?”

“Aye,” he replied with a dreadful ironic laugh, “ye can burn the cursed letter!”

Gaping, she gazed at him. What did he mean?

“Only, ye would likewise need to burn the postman’s house over his head, and that within the next twelve hours.” The laugh came again and died into silence.The woman’s face lost its foolish laxness; she seemed to stiffen all over. And suddenly she screamed—

“I’ll do it. . . . John, I’ll do it for your sake!”

“What?” he shouted, and started to his feet.

She staggered, recovered, and rushed from the kitchen. When he followed he found that she had locked herself in her own room.

He passed into the dim shop and sat down.

“Did she mean it?” he asked of the shadows. And later—“Better her than me, for who would ever suspect her?”

It was evening when she came out. She went about her accustomed duties, but her countenance was grey and stony, and she was as one stricken dumb. And he, being afraid to ask a certain question and incapable of thinking of aught else, was dumb also. They retired at the usual hour of ten.