“None, I think. I believe in the play. However, that’s none of your business. You don’t think any the less of West for taking his share?”
“No, indeed! Besides Kitty forced him by declaring she would not have the play go on at all, if he refused.—Well, I’m off,” said Hilda rather hurriedly, and with some colour in her cheeks.
“One moment. You haven’t been followed by that man, have you?” he inquired.
“No. Why do you ask? I’d have told you.”
“So you would, my dear. Symington is in town at present, and I happen to know he has been selling more shares.”
“Oh! . . . But, John, isn’t it time to act?”
“Very nearly, I hope. That’s all, Hilda. Good luck to your holiday.”
She kissed him and went out. A slight frown crossed his forehead for a moment. Then he pressed one of several buttons on his desk.
Colin entered. He had a letter in his hand.
“May I speak first, Mr. Risk? I’ve been waiting to show you this.” He handed over the letter; it was from the superintendent of the hospital where Sam the postman lay.