There was a grievous silence. At last West spoke.
“I suppose, Miss Corrie, you never heard of Symington having another address than White Farm—of late, I mean.”
Rachel started. “Wait!” she exclaimed. “Can I trust ye no to hurt him?”
They assured her, and she ran unsteadily into the dwelling-house. During her absence Corrie made one remark. It was characteristic.
“The mill was na insured. I’m completely ruined.”
Rachel returned. “See!” She handed him the folded paper she had inadvertently taken from Symington’s strong box. “And take the Zeniths,” she added. “Oh, the curse they’ve brought to this house.”
At the lamp Risk examined the document. Drawing a quick breath, he said: “Miss Corrie, this is our last hope; we must act on it without delay. As for the shares, you will kindly keep them till I send you a certificate to take the place of the missing one, and then you and your brother can deliver the lot, in whatever way you choose, to Miss Carstairs.”
“Ye would trust us!” gasped the woman.
Risk just glanced at the abject Corrie. “I believe it is what Miss Carstairs would do herself,” he said, and added, with a faint smile: “I’ve got a good sister, too. Well, you shan’t be further disturbed. Those things”—he indicated the screen and apparatus—“can be put aside, and I’ll have them taken away later on. Come, West. There’s not a moment to lose.”
They entered the car and, twenty minutes later, the special train waiting for them at Kenny Junction. And as they were whirled South, somewhere in Yorkshire, a great train roared past bearing the sleeping Symington to the rudest awakening of his