She was too exhausted by the revulsion, too thankful, to think it out.
“If you’re in danger, John, I’ll take the blame,” she faltered. “We’ll hope the letter was burned.”
“But if it’s not burned, what about Symington?”
“He mun give back the shares.”
“Ye talk foolishness, Rachel!”
“I’m wearied. I canna grasp aught except that I didna commit black murder. Let me be till the morning.”
Afraid to say more lest he should betray himself, he let her go.
At eight o’clock, the moment the wire was open, he sent a telegram to Symington—
About eleven, Symington’s housekeeper, purchasing provisions, mentioned in the course of her chatter on last night’s affair—the sole topic of conversation in Dunford—that young Mr. Hayward had called to see her employer at six o’clock that morning.