The secretary knew by this time that two minutes to Mr. Risk meant exactly 120 seconds and on the 121st Mr. Boon was admitted. His visit lasted about fifteen minutes.
Before he left he was introduced to Colin, with whom he had a few minutes’ conversation, which was probably more enlightening to himself than to the young man; and he took away with him the rude sketch of the Dunford postman’s abode.
Rather late in the evening Colin, by special permission, was sitting at Sam’s bedside. The postman was still weak, and the nurse had warned the visitor against anything in the way of excitement, but his memory was clear enough, and there was not, after all, a great deal to be remembered. Colin was soon in possession of the few facts worth having; they formed, at least, a valuable little appendix to Kitty’s story. As to his assailant on the night of the fire, Sam frankly admitted that he had nothing better than suspicions to offer; yet he was convinced that the house had been deliberately set on fire, and that he had been assaulted in his weakness either by Corrie, or Symington, or both.
But Sam was not greatly interested in his own affairs. Time enough to think of punishment and revenge when he was on his feet again, he declared. He wanted to hear about Kitty.
Colin did his best to oblige him, leaving out, of course, all reference to Symington’s last outbreak, and explaining that Kitty was not yet aware of her old friend’s misfortune and illness.
“Quite right, quite right,” said Sam. “So long as she’s in good health, and wi’ kind friends, I’m content. And before long I’ll be getting the letter ye say she wrote me, just after she got to London. Ye see, we couldna trust Corrie, and she would send it to Peter Hart, the shepherd, in the next postal district.”
“I’m going to tell her simply that you’ve had an accident,” said Colin, “so you may expect a new letter from her immediately. . . . Now I see the nurse looking at me, and I suppose my time is up. But I must tell you, from Mr. Risk, that your house will be rebuilt, and ready for you by the time you are ready for it. Not a word, Sam! It’s no use arguing with Mr. Risk, I know! . . . Well, I must go. Keep everything a secret for the present.”
Sam clung to the young man’s hand. “Tell her,” he whispered, “to look out for Symington. Tell her the news o’ her has done me a power o’ good. Good luck to ye, Mr. Colin—good luck to ye both.”
Colin hurried to the inn, wrote a letter, and just managed to catch the late night mail for the south. The letter would reach Risk by the second morning delivery. Then he re-read the telegram he had found waiting for him at the hospital. It seemed to give him pleasant thoughts, for he smiled. It was from Hilda, and invited him to take tea the following afternoon in the Station Hotel, Newcastle.
Next morning he stepped from the early train at Dunford. In order to turn aside any local curiosity, he went straight to his father’s house, and got the caretaker to give him breakfast, explaining that he had called on his way to London to collect one or two small articles from his old room. Thereafter he strolled around with his hand-camera and secured some “souvenir snapshots,” as he put it to an interested villager. In the course of his stroll he recorded—surreptitiously, it should be remarked—a view of the back of Corrie’s cottage, and another of the scene immediately in front of Sam’s ruined dwelling.