“Is it yours, Mr. Corrie?”
Corrie seemed to pull himself together. “Aye, it’s mine, sure enough, and—and I’m obliged to ye, Mr. Hayward.” The old cunning came to his aid. “I lost it more’n a week ago. Might I ask where ye found it?”
“On the grass across the road from the postman’s house, while it was burning,” answered Colin, as naturally as he could.
“Well, well! That’s mysterious, for it’s more’n a month since I was that road, except the morning after the fire. Somebody mun ha’ found it and lost it again. Well, once more, I’m obliged to ye, though the paper’s no’ o’ any great consequence. It was written by my poor brother-in-law when he wasna quite right in his head. Still, I’m glad to have it, Mr. Hayward, thank ye.”
“I should explain,” said Colin, concealing with an effort his disgust, “that after I picked it up I forgot about it until I was in the train for London. Good morning, Mr. Corrie.” He caught up case and coat, and hurried out before Corrie could frame another sentence.
“Rachel!—here, quick!”
She came in haste, almost weeping.
“Oh, John, John, ha’ ye got it back?”
“Aye,” he answered shortly, with something of his old truculence of tone.
“Oh, God be thanked!” she murmured.