On the afternoon of the same day, which happened to be the weekly half-holiday, Rachel Corrie returned from a longish walk undertaken, as she had announced to her brother at dinner, in the hope of relieving a severe headache. In these days it was for her a rare occurrence to leave the house at all, and a common one to have a headache, but Corrie had been too self-engrossed to be moved by surprise or sympathy.

Entering the cottage, Rachel certainly did not look much the better of the outing; she seemed, in fact, to be suffering from a faintness, for at first she leaned awhile against the closed door, and she crept slowly and unsteadily up the passage, keeping her hand on the wall for support. Presently she was peering into the darkened shop; listening, also. Ere long her brother’s voice came indistinctly from the post office beyond; she gathered that he was checking figures with the assistant. Rachel appeared to nerve herself, then stepped stealthily into the shop. On a nail in the wall, just behind the door, she hung a ponderous key—the spare key of the mill, which had been idle that day for the first time in several weeks. For fully a minute she stood motionless save for her breathing, her hand pressed hard to her heart; then, with a heavy sigh, she stole out and laboriously ascended to her room. She was wholly spent as she fell upon her bed, yet at the end of an hour she was down in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, to which her brother would come when he had finished with the inward evening mail.

Of late John Corrie’s appetite had been indifferent; to-night it seemed to have failed him altogether. He sat there speechless, now and then taking a sup of tea, and never once allowing his gaze to fall on his sister—not that she, poor soul, could have met it for an instant. Nevertheless, at last she forced herself to speak.

“Can ye no’ eat, John?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Let me be. I’m no’ hungry.”

With her eyes on the cloth she said in a strange gentleness of tone: “John, dinna trouble over much. Maybe everything ’ll come right yet. Dinna be vexed wi’ me, but I believe—John, I believe that if ye took pen now and wrote to Kitty, telling her the truth—” She stopped short, so dreadful was his expression.

“Let that be,” he growled, “or ye’ll drive me stark mad. Peace!—no’ another word!” He got up and strode from the room.

In his pocket was a letter, the postmark on which would have told that it had been posted in London about midnight; a letter which he had been expecting for days, consisting of one pencilled word—“Arrested”—with neither address nor signature. And by that solitary word Corrie’s soul was racked, as between a man’s last hope and his final terror.

Alone, Rachel put her hand to her face.

“Oh God,” she murmured, “if only it had been possible. . . . But now the candle mun be left to burn—burn to the end. . . . Maybe—oh, surely—I’ll save him yet.”

In her methodical way she cleared the table, washed the dishes, and set the kitchen in order. Afterwards she sat by the fire and tried to read the morning’s paper. She noticed that on the previous day Zeniths had risen to £6, but the sensational advance moved her not at all. Long after she had ceased to read she kept staring at the printed page. At seven o’clock, feeling her strength ebbing, and knowing how vital it was that she should conserve every spark of energy in her, she went up to her room and lay down. There was still another hour, possibly more, to wait and endure. . . .

At last—at last the sound of running and excited shouts . . . a thundering on the door below . . . the opening of the door—

“Mr. Corrie, the mill’s on fire!”

A pause that seemed an age, then her brother’s voice, harsh, yet almost calm—

“Rachel, the mill’s on fire!”

“I’m coming,” she tried to call, producing naught but a croak.

She got to the window in time to see him hastening away in the failing light. She made no attempt to follow just then. She lingered, crouching there behind the curtain, until the heavy silence informed her that practically the whole population of Dunford had bolted to the scene of destruction. Then body and wits under control once more, she took the implements she had prepared, cloaked herself and set out on the road to the mill. Not a soul was in sight.

Her destination was the White Farm. At the door she knocked, ready to plead faintness should the unexpected happen. But no one came. She had gauged pretty accurately the duty sense of housekeeper and servants in the master’s absence. One and all had incontinently deserted the place and their occupations to see the fire she had raised. A chained dog barked wildly; she did not appear to hear it.

The door was not locked. She entered and without hesitation climbed the stair. She had been welcome in the house in the old and happier days of Symington’s parents. She had often seen the strong box in its original place in the sitting-room. Doubtless it was upstairs. She was counting on that. If he had lately got a safe she had burned the mill to no purpose. . . . But God would not let her be cheated so, for was it not all done for her brother’s salvation? . . .

And now she was in the apartment above the sitting-room. The light was very dim, but she soon found what she sought. In a moment the chintz cover was off and laid aside. Then in a sort of splendid fury, with heavy, powerful tools, she attacked the lock, wrenching, twisting, thrusting, driving, heedless of the attendant noise.

And at last the mauled and shattered thing gave. With a fierce blow of hammer on sturdy screw-driver she drove it inwards. The heavy lid yielded. The bundle of Zenith certificates were there for her to take. She hid them in her dress. . . .

She swept up the smallest trace of her work, closed the lid, and neatly replaced the chintz cover. There would be no discovery till Symington himself made it. As she left the house she glimpsed, away to the left, a smoky glow, over the hollow that hid the mill. Without a second glance she set out for home along the still deserted road.

Having bolted the cottage door and returned the tools to their place, she sat down to examine her prize.

“The scoundrel has parted wi’ 500 shares!” she muttered after a careful recount of the certificates. “Poor John, it was an evil day when ye let Alec Symington into this house. But Kitty ’ll forgive ye a tenth part o’ her fortune—if she doesna, I’ll offer her every penny I possess. Oh, John, I think I’ve saved ye; and some day I’ll confess to ye about the mill. I’ll never regret it. . . . But what’s this?”

She had become conscious of a folded paper, unlike in texture the certificates, lying on her lap. She must have inadvertently picked it from the strong box along with the bundle. It was endorsed “Lease of House at 73 Lester Road, Richmond, Surrey.” She opened it and read. . . .

“So he’s got a house at that place,” she reflected. “Well, it’s none o’ my business. I wonder if John kens. Likely no. . . . I’ll ha’ to try to put it back in the box—no! I’ll risk nothing for that scoundrel’s sake! He can want his lease!” She made to toss it into the fire, then drew back. “I’ll keep it in the meantime along wi’ the shares till the time comes for telling John. . . . The sooner they’re hid the better.” She rose, and stood wavering. “Oh, God, but I’m weak,” she whispered. “Help me to win through.”

* * * * *

It was late when her brother came in, begrimed and drenched. She had a meal all but ready for him.

“Tell me about it, John,” she said, as he came to the fire in dry garments. “I couldna gang—couldna bear to see it.”

“Ye would ha’ seen a grand blaze,” he returned bitterly. “There’s nothing left—new machinery and all!”

“Well, well,” she said soothingly, “it’s a fine thing an insurance policy.”

“Very fine—when ye’ve paid the premium.”Stopping short in her hospitable task, she stared at him. “But ye ha’ paid it a month back!”

“Did I? . . . The days o’ grace were up three weeks back, but—but I had—ower many other things to think about.” A groan burst from him, he put his hands to his head. “Three thousand pound gone up in three hours!”

Rachel’s mouth opened, but she was dumb. As if frozen she stood there by the table, a plate of cut bread in her hand.

“Aye,” he went on heavily, “and I’ll take my oath it was no accident, for the place where the fire started—”

With a strangled cry the woman tottered and fell crashing across the table.

Ghastly, Corrie sprang to her assistance. Stumblingly he carried her to his chair by the hearth. She was not unconscious; her collapse had been mainly physical. Blood was dropping from a gash in her wrist.

“Dinna heed me,” she murmured; “I’ll be all right in a minute, John.”

He fetched water and cloths, knelt, washed the wound and bandaged it awkwardly yet with some tenderness. Slow tears ran down her cheeks.

“Am I hurting ye, Rachel?” he asked.She shook her head.

He spoke again. “I shouldna ha’ told ye so quick about the insurance. Dinna keep thinking on it.” Then with obviously a great effort—“Ye’ve been a good sister to me, Rachel. I—I wish I had been a better brother.”

His words left her speechless. What had come to him?

He answered the unspoken question.

“Money’s no everything, after all,” he said hoarsely, shamefacedly. “When I saw ye fall I thought ye were killed—thought I had killed ye—wi’ ma tongue. And—and just for an instant I saw myself without ye—alone—in this house—in this place—in the whole world. I had never thought o’ it that way before.” He sighed, and got to his feet. “We’ll say no more about it, Rachel, but I’ll try to treat ye better from now.” He cleared his throat, and averting his gaze said: “I wish I had never set eyes on Symington.”

Rachel restrained herself then, not for her own sake, but for his. For his own safety he must not know her secret a moment before the time was ripe. Moreover, though his kind words had moved her deeply, they had not healed her wounded trust in him.

All she could say was: “Ye’ll aye find me ready and willing to help ye, John; and it’s never too late—”

“I doubt it.” He sighed again heavily. “But things mun take their course now. . . . Ye’d better gang to your bed, or ye’ll be useless in the morning, and I’ve got to be early at the mill. I’ll get my supper myself.”

She went without a word.

Corrie sank into his chair.

“Almighty!” he moaned to himself, “what devil started me speculating on the Stock Exchange? . . . Gone, the savings o’ a lifetime! . . . And now the mill that would ha’ sold for enough to save me and maybe my savings likewise—in ashes—just ashes! It’s ruin, black ruin, unless Symington does all he’s promised. . . . And the postman’s getting better! . . . God! I’d write to Kitty this night, if it wasna too late—but now I’m damned in her eyes for ever and ever!”

* * * * *

Small wonder if it were indeed so!

In the study at Aberdare Mansions, Colin, very pale, sat staring at a sheet of typewritten paper, which Risk had put into his hand, saying—

“My sister, as I’ve already explained, found this on her return to the flat. Steady, now!”On the sheet was written, in apparent haste, the following:—

“Dear Hilda,—

“A detective has come to arrest me. He says it’s the Post Office. I’m not a bit afraid, only sorry to trouble you so. Sam will see me through. Good-bye for a little while.

“Kitty.”