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.