“Rachel, the mill’s on fire!”
“I’m coming,” she tried to call, producing naught but a croak.
She got to the window in time to see him hastening away in the failing light. She made no attempt to follow just then. She lingered, crouching there behind the curtain, until the heavy silence informed her that practically the whole population of Dunford had bolted to the scene of destruction. Then body and wits under control once more, she took the implements she had prepared, cloaked herself and set out on the road to the mill. Not a soul was in sight.
Her destination was the White Farm. At the door she knocked, ready to plead faintness should the unexpected happen. But no one came. She had gauged pretty accurately the duty sense of housekeeper and servants in the master’s absence. One and all had incontinently deserted the place and their occupations to see the fire she had raised. A chained dog barked wildly; she did not appear to hear it.
The door was not locked. She entered and without hesitation climbed the stair. She had been welcome in the house in the old and happier days of Symington’s parents. She had often seen the strong box in its original place in the sitting-room. Doubtless it was upstairs. She was counting on that. If he had lately got a safe she had burned the mill to no purpose. . . . But God would not let her be cheated so, for was it not all done for her brother’s salvation? . . .
And now she was in the apartment above the sitting-room. The light was very dim, but she soon found what she sought. In a moment the chintz cover was off and laid aside. Then in a sort of splendid fury, with heavy, powerful tools, she attacked the lock, wrenching, twisting, thrusting, driving, heedless of the attendant noise.
And at last the mauled and shattered thing gave. With a fierce blow of hammer on sturdy screw-driver she drove it inwards. The heavy lid yielded. The bundle of Zenith certificates were there for her to take. She hid them in her dress. . . .
She swept up the smallest trace of her work, closed the lid, and neatly replaced the chintz cover. There would be no discovery till Symington himself made it. As she left the house she glimpsed, away to the left, a smoky glow, over the hollow that hid the mill. Without a second glance she set out for home along the still deserted road.
Having bolted the cottage door and returned the tools to their place, she sat down to examine her prize.
“The scoundrel has parted wi’ 500 shares!” she muttered after a careful recount of the certificates. “Poor John, it was an evil day when ye let Alec Symington into this house. But Kitty ’ll forgive ye a tenth part o’ her fortune—if she doesna, I’ll offer her every penny I possess. Oh, John, I think I’ve saved ye; and some day I’ll confess to ye about the mill. I’ll never regret it. . . . But what’s this?”