John Corrie lived a hideous age in the ten minutes that followed. Then Rachel returned with the paper in her hand, but everything else about her told him she had failed.
“John,” she said, “I’ll offer him every penny I possess”—she had laid by nearly two thousand pounds—“for the letter.”
As though he had not heard her he passed into the empty, semi-dark shop, and sank on a chair at the counter. He was weak and sick with dread.
She followed, and repeated her suggestion.
“Away!” he cried; “I mun think.”
Reluctantly she left him, and in the kitchen recovered herself sufficiently to set about preparing some strong tea.
An hour passed before he joined her, and started to pace the floor.
“Ye read the letter?” he asked at last, abruptly, in a repressed voice.
She nodded, her mouth quivering.
“Ye ken what it means in the hands o’ an enemy—a friend o’ Hugh Carstairs’ daughter? . . . Jail!”