Since last we saw them John and Rachel Corrie, apart from the conversation necessitated by business, had scarcely spoken to each other. The man kept a sullen silence, lest in speech he might betray his real intentions; the woman, having come to mistrust in all his ways the being whom she loved more than herself, held her peace lest she should lead him into self-betrayal, for now she feared the worst so greatly that she could not face the sure knowledge thereof. Rachel knew by this time why she had heard no more from Kitty. Her three letters to the girl had never passed beyond the post office—she had actually and secretly witnessed her brother destroy the last—and she naturally assumed that if Kitty had written again, her letter had met a similar fate.

Although the new assistant and postman were conversant with their duties, Corrie never failed to postmark with his own hand both outward and inward mails. His manner had become disagreeably furtive; always he seemed to be watching, waiting for something to happen. Rachel’s poor heart bled for him; she blamed the sin more than the sinner; and she would have given her soul to save his. Night after night she lay long awake, brooding, scheming to the end that he might be rescued—in a worldly sense, to begin with. She fondly believed that if he were drawn back from his present sinning, his life for the future would be sinless. She believed, also, that it was Symington whom she would have to overcome in the first place. To Rachel Corrie, Symington, in the night watches, appeared as Satan himself.

And at last, at a sultry midnight, such a midnight as had witnessed her dreadful deed for her brother’s sake, a vague idea drifted, from Heaven knows where, into her distracted, weary mind, and lodged there. Ere she slept it had developed to a grim purpose, which even the searching light of morning could not weaken.

She would render Symington powerless, helpless, by depriving him of the Zenith certificates! . . . But how? It cost her many more sleepless hours and much aching thought before she could answer the question. But eventually, the way was found, and while it appalled her, she would not turn back. However, she would have to bide her time. For one thing, the mill was at present too busy—the mill which, you will remember, was one of John Corrie’s properties apart from the general store—and the mill was involved in her scheme. For another, a word with Symington might have helpful results.

It was on the third evening following that of his castigation that Symington appeared in Dunford. He came in response to a curt note from the postmaster: “It is time you and me had a talk. Look sharp.” A telegram preceded him. For the first time since his last visit Corrie mentioned the man’s name to Rachel.

“Symington will be here ’tween eight and nine.”

“I’ll be out,” she returned calmly.

For a moment he was taken aback. Then—“As ye please,” he said, and after a short pause added: “I expect your niece will get the shares before long.”

He did not look at her, nor did she at him as she replied—

“Very well, John. I’ll be glad when it’s a’ settled.”

She left the house at the hour the train was due, and took the road which led to White Farm and also to the mill, a couple of miles farther on.Symington arrived at the cottage in a bad humour.

“What the devil do you keep on bothering me for?” he demanded the moment he was in the parlour. “I’m going ahead as quickly as I can. Do you want me to ruin the whole thing by rushing it.”

“No use in losing your temper,” said Corrie coldly. “It’s a fortnight past since ye started to get a hold o’ the girl. I want to ken what ye’ve been doing in London, besides enjoying yourself.”

“Don’t talk about enjoyment! I tell you I’ve been busy the whole time.”

“Well, what ha’ ye done?”

Symington took out a cigar. “Look here—what are you trying to drive me for? What’s at the back of this cry for haste?”

“There’s a chance o’ the postman getting better.”

“Well, curse him for a nuisance, and you for a bungler!”

“Mind, I’ve got that letter!” snarled Corrie.

“You’d never use it? . . . However, I may tell you that I’ve completed my arrangements for the capture of Miss Kitty.”

“And what may they be?”“I think I’d better not tell you. You’re so tender-hearted!”

A grey shadow came over Corrie’s face. “Is—is it going to hurt her?” he whispered. “I canna consent to her being hurt—seriously.”

Symington laughed shortly. “You think I’d hurt Kitty, do you? Sometimes I fancy you’re a bit cracked, Corrie! Well, I must admit it’s going to be a little unpleasant, inconvenient, for her—but nothing worse. She’s going to disappear for a time—”

“Where?”

“You’re better not to know in case you’re asked—see?”

The postmaster plucked at his lower lip. “Maybe,” he mumbled, “maybe.”

“And young Hayward’s going to disappear likewise.”

“God! Are ye no’ afraid? . . . But how am I to believe ye?”

“Give me four days—a week at most. Now, don’t ask any more questions, for I’m not going to answer them. As I said, you’re better not to know anything.”

“Just one. How long will it take, think ye to—to make her give in?”

Symington had drunk a good deal of wine on the train, or he might not have answered as he did.

“How long does it take to starve a healthy man?”

* * * * *

In the dusk Symington was nearing the farm when, from a gate in the hedge, Rachel Corrie stepped into his path.

“I want a word wi’ ye, Mr. Symington,” she said bluntly.

“Well?”

“And first I’ll tell ye that John Desna ken o’ this.”

“Go on.” He was annoyed at the interruption, for he had much to think of before he slept that night, and he was returning to London by the early morning train. Also he was tormented by a craving for something to drink.

“’Tis about the Zeniths,” she proceeded.

“None of your business, I should say, Miss Corrie.”

“I say different. But I only want ye to satisfy me that ye are dealing fair with my brother—”

“How dare you insinuate—”

“No need for temper,” she went on steadily. “John maybe wouldna like to ask ye himself, but I’m going to put a straight question, for it’s been on my mind for a while now—”“Kindly come to the point.”

“I will! Have ye or have ye not parted wi’ any o’ the shares?”

His indignation was well assumed. “If you were a man—” he began.

“But I’m only a woman, and not one of the blind, trusting sort, Mr. Symington. Still, I’m as curious as any.”

Suddenly he gave an ironic laugh. “Very well, Miss Corrie; I don’t want you to lose any more of your beauty sleep, so I give you my word that—”

“And ye’ll let me see the certificates, Mr. Symington,” she interrupted very firmly.

For an instant he hesitated. He might tell her that they were in his banker’s safe. But no: better exhibit them and have done with the matter.

“If I was not aware of your affection for your brother,” he said, “I’d consider your request an insult, and refuse it point-blank. However, you can come along to the house and be satisfied.”

He prepared for other questions, but she asked none, and presently he was showing her into the farm-house parlour, saying: “I’ll fetch them at once.”

She waited in the twilight, listening with all her nerves, as it were. She heard him go upstairs, she counted his movements in the room directly overhead.

Symington knew he was taking no small risk. Originally the certificates, folded separately, had made a tape-tied bundle of ten, each certificate representing five hundred shares. Now there were only nine. But Symington took from his pocket a certificate for one hundred shares, and inserted it in the bundle. He could not tell how familiar she might be with the documents, but he trusted that she would be satisfied with finding the number of them correct, and reckoned that if she did insist on examining them separately, the dusk would prevent her detecting the discrepancy. So he came downstairs, whistling.

“Thank ye,” she said at once, without even touching the bundle; “I’ll be getting home now.”

For she had discovered what she wanted to know—not with her eyes, but with her ears.

“Silly old fool!” Symington remarked to himself, much relieved, as he went upstairs again. “I needn’t go on worrying about her, anyway.”

He entered his bedroom, returned the one hundred share certificate to his pocket, and deposited the bundle in an immensely heavy oaken chest, steel-bound and fastened to the floor in the window. It had been the Symington “strong box” for generations. Only lately had the idea of superseding it with a modern safe occurred to the present owner.

“I’ll write to Glasgow for a price list to-night,” he thought, withdrawing the queer, stumpy key, and replacing the chintz cover, which gave the chest something of the appearance of an ottoman. “Yes; I’ll write to-night.” Just then his importunate thirst assailed him once more, and drove him downstairs to a cupboard in the parlour.