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.