IT would seem that Rachel Corrie had forgotten her own weakness in her brother’s collapse. He had risen as usual, but it was evident that he was totally unfit for the business of the day. Crouched in his chair by the kitchen fire he presented a sad spectacle of human misery and shame. It was after nine, and Rachel was endeavouring to persuade him to eat some breakfast. With scarcely any warning Symington, coming from the shop, was upon them. His face was like chalk, his eyes were congested. “Corrie,” he cried hoarsely, “I give you three minutes to produce my Zenith certificates!” 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—” “Dinna tell all the neighbours about it,” Rachel said quietly. “I’m responsible. Do what ye like wi’ me. But mind ye broke your part o’ the bargain by selling some o’ the shares secretly—” “You fool, that was no legal bargain! But the law will recognize your brother’s receipt for—” “Gang to the law! . . . Man, I can fancy ye sweating at the sight o’ a policeman!” He looked death at her then, yet he must still use guile rather than force. Suddenly he spoke. “Look here! I’ll make terms with you. I’ll give you a—a third.” “I’ll keep what I’ve got—for Kitty. So that’s the end, and ye can just get out o’ this and leave me to give John his breakfast.” With a snarl he sprang, thrust her aside, and reached the side of Corrie’s armchair; Corrie leapt, sank back and became rigid, the muzzle of a revolver against his temple. “Get me the Zeniths!” Rachel’s countenance was grey. At last she wet her lips, and said almost inaudibly— “I’ll fetch them.” She turned to go. “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.”