Hilda was the first to make a movement. She rose and passed quickly round the table to the apparently stricken girl.

“Kitty,” she said quietly, “remember you are among friends here—friends, who will not permit any person or thing to harm you.” She laid a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder.

The host also rose, signing to Colin and West to follow him from the room. But just then Kitty let her hands fall from her face. No longer was it pale, for the shock of fear was past, and her cheeks glowed with honest indignation.

“Mr. Risk, please don’t go away,” she said a little unsteadily. “I don’t wish any one to go away. I’m so sorry to upset everything like this—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Risk said gently. “As my sister has just remarked, we are your friends, and we are all ready and anxious to serve you. You really want us to remain?”

“Please.” She turned to Hilda. “I want you to read it aloud,” she said, pointing to the note.

Hilda picked up the paper, and she, too, flushed as her eyes took in the pencilled words.

“The beast!” she muttered under her breath. She took West’s seat which he had vacated for her.

“This note,” she announced, “has neither address nor signature. It has evidently been pencilled by a person under the influence of rage, illness, or—alcohol. It asks:—’Do your new friends know where you got the money that brought you to London?’ . . . That is all.”

Colin went ruddy, half rose, and subsided with mingled feelings—anger at the insult to Kitty, dread lest for her sake he should be forced to confess to sending her the hundred pounds, and a sudden recognition that not so long ago he had held a similar piece of paper bearing an anonymous message in pencil.

“And now,” said Kitty in a steadier voice, though she was pale again, “will you, please, tell them all you know about me, Hilda; all I have told you about myself.”

The host poured a little wine into a glass and set it before her, saying: “My dear Miss Carstairs, I want to know only one thing. Who is the unspeakable cad who wrote that?”Kitty took a sip and smiled faintly. “If you can be bothered listening to my rather unpleasant little story, which I want Hilda to tell,” she said slowly, “I think you may guess the writer’s name. At least, I can think of only one person who would do such a thing—”

“Symington!” burst from Colin’s lips.

“The gentleman who, unfortunately, has never called here,” said Risk quietly.

“Of course, it can be no other,” cried Hilda, in unwonted excitement.

Colin was on his feet. “Mr. Risk, will you excuse—” he was beginning when Sharp entered.

“Mr. Symington,” the servant intimated, “wishes to speak with Miss Carstairs on the ’phone.”

There were blank looks until Hilda, with recovered coolness, said—

“Sharp, will you tell Mr. Symington that Miss Carstairs is afraid of contamination, even over the wire.”

“Very good, Hilda,” her brother remarked. “Have you got it clearly, Sharp?”

“Yes, sir,” the servant answered, and calmly repeated the words. Then he went out.

Risk turned to Colin, who was still standing and gave a nod, murmuring: “All right, Hayward, we’ll excuse you. Good luck!”

Colin bowed to the ladies, and with a curious set look on his face left the room.

Hilda glanced at her brother, but said nothing. Kitty was feeling a little hurt, and, perhaps, a little relieved also. Why should Colin have wanted to escape hearing her story? On the other hand, it would, perhaps, be less trying to hear it told without his presence.

“Let’s have coffee in the study, John,” said Hilda suddenly, “and I’ll try to do what Kitty asks. I do think you and Anthony ought to know how abominably she has been treated, especially as one of her wretched persecutors seems to be losing his head and getting to work again.”

“Personally,” said Risk, “I confess to acute curiosity. In two minutes we shall do as you suggest, Hilda. Meanwhile, Miss Carstairs, let us try to come to some agreement with West about the play.”

It was a tactful suggestion, for Kitty was requiring a change of thought rather badly just then.

Later, as they were passing to the study, Sharp got a word with his master in the hall.“Mr. Hayward asked me to tell you, sir, that he was making a call at the Kingsway Grand Hotel, but that he did not expect to be long in returning.”

“Very well. . . . Did he ask for anything before he left the house?”

“A flexible cane, sir, which I chanced to be able to provide.”

Risk nodded, and looking serious, was about to follow his guests, when a thought seemed to strike him.

“Sharp, did Mr. Symington make any response to the message?”

“He did, sir.”

“What did he say?”

Sharp hesitated, “Well, sir,” he replied at last, solemnly, “I should say he contaminated the wire, sir!”

* * * * *

In common justice it should be stated here that Alexander Symington was not a faithful slave to alcohol. As a rule he kept the upper hand. A full record of his adult life, however, would show that at long intervals and at times of extreme excitement, he lost his grip, fell, and simply wallowed. His collapse on this occasion was probably the result of his converting a hundred Zeniths into nearly five hundred pounds sterling. With pockets full of notes and gold, and with the sure prospect of being able to refill them as soon as emptied—refill them over and over again—it is small wonder that he became reckless in an abnormal degree. At all events, the money was not in his pockets for an hour when, with the assistance of a couple of fellows no finer-souled than himself, he entered upon a bout of dissipation as wild as it was varied. Even Kitty was forgotten. . . .

And now he was in process of “coming to himself”—and a very unpleasing process it was. Physically, though weakened, he was less disorganized than might have been expected; mentally, however, his state was that of extreme annoyance with himself and savage resentment against the world in general, and two persons in particular. He could not remember all the idiotic acts he had committed in the course of those crazy days and nights, but he was clearly and disagreeably aware that besides squandering four hundred and seventy pounds, he had presented his two boon companions with a hundred Zeniths apiece for no reason or purpose that he could soberly name. He was further tormented by the bitter reflection that he had wasted ten valuable days. For all he knew, Kitty, in that period, might have put herself beyond his reach for good and all. Also he had lately received from Corrie a somewhat peremptory note requesting him to report progress, and breathing a novel and unpleasant spirit of independence.

It was in this harassed condition, and with a still clouded intelligence, that he had obeyed the two impulses in the direction of Kitty, of which we have seen the results—so far. And now, not so many minutes after the telephone episode, he was already cursing himself for a silly fool, and asking what madness was upon him that he should have as good as warned the girl against himself.

He had determined to spend this evening in the sitting-room of his suite reserved in the Kingsway Grand Hotel, a hostelry largely patronized by unattached gentlemen with money to burn. An hour ago he had dined very lightly and temperately, but the reaction from the previous over-indulgence had soon afterwards demanded more stimulant, and a pint bottle of champagne stood on a small table convenient to his easy chair. He was expecting his two friends, but hoping that something—a motor accident, fatal, for choice—might yet prevent them from turning up. It would be many a day before he forgave these two, for although he had freely presented them the Zeniths, he now regarded them about as kindly as if they had robbed him.

He lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand, took a mouthful of wine and lay back in his chair, sluggish of body, sullen of soul. When, a moment later, he heard the door open, he swore under his breath, but did not so much as turn his head. He anticipated a greeting as the door was shut—a bluff greeting of the “What ho” order; wherefore the words that came after a brief pause were something of a shock.

“You swine!”

He started up to see “young Hayward” standing over him, with a look in his eyes that boded anything but goodwill.

Colin was full of fury, but it was the frigid sort.

“What the deuce do you want?” said Symington at last, and his hand stole behind him. His recent pleasure-hunt had included visits to one or two rather queer corners of London town, down by the docks.

“What you want is a thrashing,” answered Colin, “and I’m here to give it you.”

Symington’s complexion went from scarlet to grey.

“What the —— do you mean by intruding here? If you don’t clear out—” His hand went up with a glitter. “Out of this, you young fool, or by—”

Swish! Like a flash the whangee cane smote his knuckles. With a cry he let drop the weapon. Colin kicked it across the room.

Hissing with wrath and pain, Symington sprang up and made a dash for the bell. No use! He was seized by the collar, shaken vigorously, then dragged to the table in the centre of the room, from which the dessert had not been removed. Mercilessly he was thrown across it, his face in a dish of raisins, and in that undignified position, vainly struggling, he received a most painful chastisement.

Often afterwards Colin, whose weight and muscle were nothing exceptional, would wonder how on earth he had managed to handle successfully a heavy man like Symington; but love and hate combined with honest rage gave him, for the time being, the strength of three, and moreover his victim was flabby after a long debauch.

The noise of the caning coupled with the involuntary exclamations of the sufferer were, however, not long in attracting attention, and a knock on the door warned Colin that it was time to desist. Putting his whole heart into a final cut, which brought forth a yelp of anguish, he loosed his grip, saying rather breathlessly—

“That is the reply to your anonymous notes, Mr. Symington, and if you want to call the police now, pray do so.”

A waiter, mouth open, was staring from the doorway.

Symington stood up, his expression devilish. He had a fruit knife in his hand—a frail, pretty thing, yet pointed. He lunged at his enemy’s face. Again the cane swished, and the knife fell to the floor.

“Gentlemen,” gasped the waiter.

“Well?” inquired Colin. “Is it to be the police?”

“Damn you! Get out of this! I’ll make you sorrier than any police judge could do.”

“Very well,” said Colin, turning to the door. “In the meantime,” he added, over his shoulder, “if I were you, I’d get the waiter to remove the raisins from your chin and left eyebrow.” With that, perhaps the unkindest cut of all, he went out, leaving Symington almost beside himself with passion.

As for the waiter, the unfortunate creature was so tactless as to smile at the raisins, and two days later he was dismissed from the hotel service.As soon as he reached the street, Colin realized that he was shaking all over. “What a rage I must have been in!” he said to himself, half gladly, half ruefully.

“Well, I guess he won’t trouble Kitty again, and I don’t see how he’s going to get at me.”

But Colin did not know Symington, or he would have, at least, qualified his confidence. As a matter of fact, by thrashing the man he had simply turned a cad into a blackguard. But he drove back to Aberdare Mansions feeling that he had been able to do something for his beloved after all, though she must never know of it, and he arrived there happier than he had been for months.

Risk met him in the hall with a quizzical smile.

“Found him out, I suppose, Hayward?”

“That’s for you to do, Mr. Risk,” was the blithe reply. “I found him in, and I fancy he’ll not move far to-night, at all events.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Risk, his eyes on the cane, “you whacked the beggar!”

“To the best of my ability.” Colin found his hand being shaken.

“It was splendid, Hayward,” Risk said gravely, “and we must hope it was also wise. Now we’ll forget about it for the present. Come along and have your coffee. We have heard Miss Carstairs’ story, and West and I are her willing servants, till she comes to her own. But, of course, she must not know we are working for her, and she must, if possible, be induced to forget those ugly little incidents of to-night—or, at any rate, be prevented from dwelling on them.”

A couple of hours later, the night being exquisite, Colin walked home with Kitty, West escorting Hilda.

“Mr. Risk is giving you plenty to do, isn’t he?” Kitty remarked, making an effort to shake off the feeling of restraint that had come upon her on finding herself alone with Colin.

“Yes,” said Colin, who was hampered by a similar sensation. “But he’s worth working for. He has given me a chance that I might have sought in vain all my life. But never mind about me, Kitty,” he went on. “I wish very much to know what you—or rather Miss Risk—told the others while I was absent to-night.”

“I think I’d rather not talk about it,” she said, after a short pause. “Mr. West, or Mr. Risk, will tell you, if you really want to know.”

“Kitty, why do you say that, and in such a tone?”

“Why did you go away almost as soon as I asked Hilda to tell my story?”“Why? Well, because—” he hesitated—“because it suddenly occurred to me that—that there was a thing I must attend to,” he concluded lamely. “Good heavens, Kitty, you surely didn’t imagine that I was anything but keen to hear your story! Ever since I learned you were in London I’ve been wondering how the great change came about.”

His earnestness overcame her doubts.

“I’m a horrid thing, Colin,” she declared self-reproachfully, “but I wanted to make sure that you did not despise me—”

“Despise you!”

“—for running away from Dunford, and for accepting the kindness of strangers as I have done.”

“What an absurd idea, Kitty! I won’t tell you how glad I was to hear you were in London and in the care of such friends. Show that you trust me a little better by telling me how it all came about. By the way, have you heard from Dunford since you left?”

She shook her head. “I sent my aunt my address, and told her I was all right, but she has not answered. Well, I’m not so surprised at that as at not hearing from Sam, the postman. It was he who helped me to get away—”“Won’t you begin at the beginning?”

“Very well—only you must promise not to discuss it afterwards. It’s not a pretty story, Colin, and only in self-protection did I ask Hilda to tell it to-night. Well, here it is.”

She told it simply and in few words, and he heard her to the end without a single interruption. Now and then, indeed, when her voice wavered, he would have given all his future to have taken her for one moment into his arms. The incident of the £100 brought a flush to his face, while he blessed the thought that had caused him to send her the means for escape; but the tale of her uncle’s hideous treachery turned him ghastly with wrath and pity.

“And so,” she finished, “the journey that started so miserably ended most wonderfully, and here I am with all my dreams come true”—she gave a small rueful laugh—“except one. For I used to dream of being brave and independent and even adventurous; and now—”

“Oh, Kitty, thank God you didn’t arrive in London alone!” he exclaimed.

“I do,” she returned softly. “I was a little fool to imagine I could ever have stood alone and made my own way. I’m self-supporting now with my typing, but that’s all thanks to Hilda. Colin, did you ever hear of anything so wonderful as the way things have turned out for me? Do you know, once or twice I’ve thought it might all have been planned out by Mr. Risk—that he, for my father’s sake, might have been secretly watching over me. . . . Some day, when I know him better, I’ll ask him straight about the £100. Don’t you think I might do that?”

“Certainly,” said Colin cheerfully. “And so now you are perfectly happy, Kitty?”

“Yes, I am!” she answered, with just a trace of defiance. She was not going to admit that there was something lacking, and perhaps she was not quite sure what the “something” was. And, of course, it was nothing to her that Colin, earlier in the evening, had appeared to be greatly taken with Hilda—and Hilda’s lovely eyes!

Later, he mentioned that West and he desired to take her and Hilda to a theatre on the coming Friday. Kitty had already been to several theatres, yet, somehow, the prospect thrilled her more than it had done prior to previous visits, though her acceptance of the invitation, given subject to Hilda’s approval, was little more than polite.

They were nearly home when Colin said rather diffidently—“I’ve promised not to discuss Dunford or the people there, but, Kitty, I’d just like to hear that you are no longer afraid of that wretched worm, Symington.”

After a moment she replied: “No, Colin. For that moment, at dinner, I was afraid, horribly afraid, I admit. But I’ve got over it. For what can the man do?”