“No,” said Risk mildly. “I have no supercilious feelings about the methods of our police, but for Miss Carstairs’ own sake we want publicity less than ever now. I have eight men at work, who will do all that Scotland Yard could do—and I am not resting much myself.”
Colin thought for a moment. “Knowing what we do,” he said, “we don’t need to look far for a motive on Symington’s part. The Zeniths alone—”
“Kitty will never give in,” cried Hilda. “He’ll never force her to marry him.”
“Good God!” groaned Colin, “to think of her being in that scoundrel’s power!”
Risk laid a hand on his shoulder. “Blame me, if you must, Hayward,” he said quietly, “but don’t give way to despair.” After a slight pause he added: “Give me four days.”
“You have a clue?”
“Not quite—only the means, I hope, of obtaining one. But don’t ask me questions. My plan may be unnecessary after all. We may perhaps find the way without it.”
“But, Mr. Risk, can’t you put your plan into operation at once?”
“It requires some developing. . . . For Heaven’s sake, Hayward,” exclaimed Risk, with unwonted warmth, “try to believe that I’d give all I have if I could get the poor girl out of that cad’s clutches without an hour’s delay!”
“You will trust my brother, won’t you?” said Hilda softly, and next moment Colin was silently wringing Risk’s hand. Somehow, he could not doubt this man.