“Dinna be feared, John. Ye’re safe. The letter’s bound to be ashes by now.” Then she shrieked, for the room was lit by a blinding flash, and she fell to her knees. Almost immediately the house shook under an appalling crash. The long threatened storm had burst at last. There was a pause as though to allow Earth to take one long breath before the storm and deluge—which were to prove memorable in Dunford and district. Not many minutes had passed when something like hope came to John Corrie. Unless the staff were already discovered, he was safe so far as it was concerned, for now the ditch would be rushing a foot deep. His wits began to work again. Even if young Hayward had picked up the letter. . . . He drew Rachel to her feet, saying shortly but not harshly: “Get to your bed, woman. I’m for out.” “Out!” she echoed faintly. “Would ye face the wrath o’ God?” “I would face the folk, in case they wonder. Besides, ye canna be sure that—that he’s burnt wi’ the house.” “Oh, God!” she whispered; and a moment later—“John, bring me word he’s alive, and I’ll take oath it was me that stole the Zeniths!” She moved gropingly from the room. So Corrie, having put on his Sunday boots and oilskins, went out into the storm to face his fellows. He did not encounter his poor victim, who was already on the way, in a summer visitor’s motor-car, to the nearest hospital, twenty miles distant; but he heard talk of concussion of the brain and a villainous-looking tramp seen in the village the previous night; also he beheld the ruins of the shanty and the brimming ditch. But for something white on the sodden grass he looked in vain; and young Hayward, it seemed, had disappeared after doing what he could for the postman. It was nearing four when Corrie returned home. The storm had ceased, though fine rain still fell on torn-up roads, ruined crops and flooded meadows. He told Rachel exactly what he had heard, and added a little more. “He was found by young Hayward. Supposing he had the letter in his hand when he was struck, where is it now?” 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— “Come at once.” 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. “What was he wanting at such an hour?” Corrie managed to say.