“Ye—!” he stormed, “ye’ve ruined me, damned me!” For an instant it seemed as though he would smite her, but he flung away, saying, “Get out o’ my sight! Ye’ve done for your brother!” Yet, for all his passion, his mind was working quickly. He recalled her as she tottered through the shop. “There’s just a chance he hasna opened it yet. Haste ye to his house and tell him ye want a sight o’ it for ten minutes. Make any excuse ye like, but gang quick.” Willingly she went, poor soul, for with all her being she loved this brother of hers, contemptible thief though he was. 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!” “Oh, John! . . . But he’ll maybe sell it to me.” “Ye fool!” Presently she said: “Sit down, dearie, and try a cup o’ tea. I’ve made it fresh for ye.” He went on pacing. “And what about Symington?” “If ye were to tell him the truth, maybe—” “Ye fool!” “But I was thinking,” she said meekly, “he might help ye for his own sake.” “The only way he can help me is to marry your niece within the three months, getting her promise at once, of course. But—” “Something maybe happened in the train last night,” she ventured. “Ye’ll be hearing from him in the morning.” “I wonder,” he said slowly, “where she got the money to gang to London wi’.” The woman’s hand went to her flat breast. “John, did she no’ take it from the post office, as ye said?” “No,” was the sullen answer. “Oh, John, John! . . . But ye’ve enough to bear now without me reproaching ye.” After a pause she continued: “She’ll ha’ to send Sam her address afore he can do anything wi’ the letter.” “Aye; but they’re no’ such fools as to communicate wi’ each other through this office.” She sighed helplessly. “There’s somebody in the office,” he said suddenly. “I’ll—” “Let me,” she interposed; “ye’re no’ fit. Take your tea till I come back.” She was absent several minutes, and on her return she was cheered by seeing him at the table and the cup empty. “Who was it, and what were ye doing in the shop?” he asked, more from habit than interest. “It was Mr. Hayward—” “Him! What was he wanting?”