“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?”