What followed was, as the perpetrator would have been first to admit, a piece of barefaced “fake.” Yet its one glaring divergence from fact and its several minor discrepancies could not neutralize the main dire truth of the story. As a film it had been a costly and difficult piece of work; as a spectacle it would have impressed any audience. The only question Risk asked himself now was: Would it attain the single object to which it had been devoted?
The screen was again illuminated, but not brightly. Corrie, sweating with apprehension, gazed in a sort of fascination at the outside of his own home. Soon he saw a muffled figure which he could scarce have denied as his own, so familiar it was, even to the slight limp of the left leg, emerge and steal down the lonely road, with fugitive glances here and there. It vanished and immediately there appeared a shanty that might have been the postman’s. Towards it came the muffled figure. It passed behind the shanty. A strangled sound came from Corrie’s throat as he tried to scream, “I didna!” The familiar figure came back, went to the door and . . . Corrie shut his eyes. But he could not keep them so. When he looked again the shanty was blazing at the rear. Suddenly, the door was torn inwards and Sam, the postman, or his double, dropped a hatchet and staggered forth in agony. He reeled across the road, fell on the grass and lay heaving. Then into the picture crept the muffled figure, raised a bludgeon and smote once, twice; knelt, lingered, and rose with a letter in its hand. Then all movement ceased for, perhaps, ten seconds. And then, as by an invisible hand, the black muffler was snatched away, and there was the face of John Corrie, and no other, a mask of guilty terror.
The prisoner, breaking from West’s detaining hold, pitched forward to the floor, and grovelled.
“What are ye doing to my brother?” The harsh voice of a woman startled them all.
Gaunt, ghostly, Rachel Corrie strode forward and halted beside the miserable creature whom she loved.
“Pack o’ lies!” she cried. “It was me that set fire to the house; it was me that stole the Zeniths, and sold them to Symington; but I’ve got them back, all but one certificate. Ye cowards! what mean ye by treating an old man—” She broke off, fell on her knees and whispered: “John, it’s all right. Ye’re safe, dearie, quite safe.”
Risk, who had sent the wondering mechanics outside, turned the key and came over to the group. He stooped and unlocked the handcuffs, unfastened the gag.
“Miss Corrie,” he said gently, “I’m sorry you have suffered this, but it was vital that we should get at the truth.” He signed to West, and between them they lifted Corrie to the chair. He was not unconscious, but stupefied.
The woman got to her feet and began to chafe her brother’s hands.
“Listen,” she said in a low voice, “promise—swear—that he’ll never be troubled again, and I’ll put in your hands the nine certificates—”