Corrie seemed to shrink—that was all.
Rachel placed herself in front of him.
“Mr. Symington,” she said steadily, “I took them, and ye can just make up your mind never to see them again.”
Just for an instant he seemed baulked. Then he said viciously: “Hand them over, or see your brother go to jail!”
“For what? ’Twas me that fired the postman’s house, but that’s all settled. Anything else?”
He glared at her, uncertain how to proceed.
She did not wait for him. “Mr. Symington, two gentlemen were here last night, and I sent them to a house at Richmond, Surrey—”
“What? . . . Devil, you’ve ruined me!” He fairly staggered. He did not ask how she had learned about the house.
“They’ll be there by now, I should say,” she went on unemotionally. “A dirty business, Mr. Symington. If I were you, I would make haste to quit this country. You’re a done man.”
“Corrie,” he shouted, “you’re responsible! You sold me the shares. Find me the certificates at once, or by—”