The postmaster forced a grin. “Well, ye can believe that if ye like. And then,” he went on quickly, “ye had your chance in the train—and lost it!”
“I’ve told you why.”
“Well, if ye had got the girl, the letter wouldna ha’ mattered so much, for ye would ha’ got the Zeniths wi’ her. So ye can blame yourself as well as me.”
There was a silence. Corrie sat glowering at the floor and plucking at his lower lip. Symington scowled openly at him. They were in the privacy of the parlour. It was about nine o’clock and growing dark.
Suddenly Symington emitted a short, ugly laugh. “So this is what you brought me back from London for! Well, I don’t wonder at your being afraid. Between embezzlement and attempted murder—”
“Whisht, man, for God’s sake!”
“It may be murder itself yet—”
“Be quiet, damn ye!”
“Look here, Corrie; what’ll you do if Sam recovers?”
“He canna recover—I heard it an hour before ye arrived. But supposing he does recover, what can he do without the letter?”