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. * * * * * On a night, six months after Symington’s disappearance, our five friends occupied a box at the Planet. The occasion was the 150th performance of the play, which was going as strong as ever. Anthony West had ceased to grumble at having to accept a fat cheque every Wednesday. Kitty did not know what to do with all her money, but, as Risk assured her, she had still time to think about it. Her marriage day was fixed for a month thence. The curtain fell on the last act. “Don’t wait for me,” said Risk. “I’m going down in a minute to have a word with Craven. I may look you up later, Hilda,” he added with a more than usual affectionate glance at his sister. That afternoon West had called upon him, and made a confession concerning Hilda. With leisurely haste the four lovers left the box. None of them had protested at the idea of not waiting for Risk. He gazed after them, smiling whimsically, possibly a little sadly. “And so,” he murmured, “the poor dog got none.” * * * * * Printed for ROBERT SCOTT, Publisher, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. E.C. by BUTLER & TANNER, FROME.