“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.
CHAPTER XIX
One morning, about a week later, John Risk on his arrival in the City, found his sister waiting in his private office.
“I’m ordered to Newcastle to-morrow, for a couple of days,” she informed him. “What am I to do about Kitty? Naturally, she’d imagine all sorts of things if I told her she must not leave the flat during my absence, and I can hardly afford to tell the editor I don’t—”
“You can take her with you, Hilda. Why not make a little holiday of it, and when you’ve finished the job at Newcastle, take a week by the sea somewhere? You’ve had no break this summer. You’re looking a bit fagged. Of course I’ll stand the racket.”
“Dear old thing, I don’t believe I can refuse!” she cried.
“Good! I’ll post you a cheque before midday. But now I must ask you to run away. This is my busy morning. By the way, you can tell Miss Kitty that the play is going on almost immediately. West caved in last night, and agreed to take his share, and, as luck would have it, —’s recent venture has turned out a frost, and the theatre is available—”
“John! how many thousands is this going to cost you?”