“No,” whispered the voice of John Corrie. “Let him shoot. Ye’ll keep your honour, and he’ll be a murderer. I’m no caring.”
In the silence steps were heard approaching. The voice of a girl called: “Is Mr. Symington there? A wire has come for him.”
Symington went to the door and took the orange envelope. Then closing the door and putting his back to it—the revolver still in his hand—he opened the message. As he read he seemed to forget the presence of others. His face took on a bleak, sickly aspect.
This was the message—
“At Anchor Line Office, Glasgow, fifty pounds and ticket await Mr. Granton. One hour after dispatch of this, instructions will be sent local police. Bearer Zeniths are now subject to scrutiny at Company’s London office before they can be negotiated. John Risk, Director.”
He read it thrice, and during the third reading he slipped, as if unconsciously, the revolver into his pocket. For a brief space he stood motionless, bowed as if in thought.
All at once he turned, opened the door, threw up his head, squared his shoulders, and went out.
Dunford saw him no more.
John Corrie still carries on business there. His sister’s money, which turned out to be twice as much as he thought, saved the situation. The only noticeable change in the man is his open respect for her. She writes to Kitty a stiff letter twice a year.
Sam, the postman, refused a new house, but accepted from Risk a “soft job” in London.