“Let go!” Symington said savagely, “or—”
“Forgive me, I’ve kissed your hand, Kitty dear,” said Colin in a weak, husky voice.
Beside himself, Symington tore her from the door inside which Colin had fallen. As he left her in her own room he said—
“You’ll feel and think differently to-morrow. I shan’t see you till then. Going now to Dunford. But before I leave I’ll supply our friend with plenty of water—well salted.”
CHAPTER XXVI
The passage of a motor-car through Dunford in the night-time was too common a happening to disturb sleepers or excite the curiosity of a wakeful person. To-night John Corrie was wakeful, as he so often was till long after midnight, and it is probable that he was not aware of the big car’s approach till it stopped at his own door. Being a dealer in motor-spirit, he at once perceived a reason for the stoppage. More than once in the last few years he had been called in similar wise to the receipt of custom, though never quite so late as this. On the last occasion he had, without opening the door, curtly refused supplies. Nowadays, however, he could not afford to turn money away at any hour of the twenty-four. So in shirt, trousers, and slippers he was into the shop almost as soon as the expected knock fell. Still, it was better to make certain before opening.
“What do ye want?” he called, hand on key.
He opened . . . and next moment his arms were behind him while steel clicked on his wrists.
“A single sound by way of alarm, John Corrie,” said a quiet, cold voice, “and you’re a ruined man. We are not after your money, but we’re going to have the whole precious truth out of you.”