The torn telegram, which had been “handed in” at the same hour as its precursor, was also from her brother. It said—“Take very good care of your guest. No going out alone. But don’t alarm her.” CHAPTER XIII JOHN CORRIE was now fairly in the net. He reached his cottage in a condition verging on collapse, physical and mental, and slinking round to the back, gained admittance by the window of his own room, from which he had emerged an age, as it seemed, ago. He stood listening. . . . Not a sound. What was his sister doing? He must see her at once—not to tell her anything, but to discover whether she had learned of his having been out of doors. But first he must remove traces of the outing. Having lit the candle, he got off his boots, and the black muffler. They must be got rid of. In stocking feet he stole to the shop, and there made a parcel which he laid on a high shelf behind a row of tomato tins. In another part of the shop he hid his jacket in similar fashion. And then a most sickening thought struck him and almost wrecked his fear-tossed mind. The staff—Almighty! what on earth had made him fling it in the ditch? Sooner or later a search would be made; might even be going on now! Presently, his mouth craving water, he went unsteadily, spilling candle-grease by the way, to the kitchen. And there he found his sister, in a heap on the floor. She was inert, but fully conscious. Somehow he managed to drag her up and place her in the arm-chair by the cold hearth. Then he got water, and gave her some, took a draught himself, and sat down by the table. On a sudden inspiration he blew out the candle. A wakeful, curious person might wonder to see a light at such an hour. Besides . . . For perhaps twenty minutes the two wretched beings sat huddled in their chairs, motionless, speechless, while a feeble greyness began to filter slowly through the darkness. Then the woman spoke, neither to the man nor herself, but as to a third person, invisible, somewhere in the shadows. “I hope he died quick. . . . I hope he didna feel the fire. . . . I did it for my brother’s sake. I promised mother I would look after him.” Corrie rose and sat down again. He was not going to tell her that Sam had escaped the flames. There was another silence, and through it came the sound of a person running on the dry road. Presently the sound gave place to that of knocking, then cries—shouts—more knocking—then running again—several persons—cries and shouts once more. . . . Through the greyness the man and woman peered at each other’s pallid countenances. And she was thinking of a little brother she had tended long, long ago; and he was thinking of a clublike staff lying in a ditch. The scattered noises from the village grew to a commotion. Corrie dropped forward, his elbows on his knees, his face between his hands. Suddenly the woman got up and came over to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder, and said with a strange tenderness—