“He didna name his business, but he took a note o’ the address in London.” This added to Corrie’s uneasiness, though he could conceive of no connexion between the early call and the letter. About an hour later, a customer casually referred to his having observed young Hayward enter the morning train for the South, at Kenny Junction. At that Corrie wellnigh gave up. All morning he had hoped against hope that Hayward would return the letter to its owner—himself. Now he was forced to face two dreadful possibilities: first, that Hayward had recognized him last night; secondly, that Hayward knew Kitty’s address in London. And before long he perceived a third: namely, that Symington, elated by the enormous rise in Zeniths, might have been talking openly about his shares. Corrie felt like making a bolt for it. Vain to imagine mercy from Kitty after all that had passed! Only the idea that Hayward’s recognition would be a difficult thing to substantiate and the thought of his sister’s promise restrained and sustained him. He called Rachel into the post office at a moment when no business was doing. They had scarcely spoken since three o’clock. “Do ye stand by what ye said about the—the shares?” he asked her, not without shame. “Aye; I’ve promised,” she answered dully. “They’d be easier on a woman than a man,” he observed, looking away. “It doesna matter.” She turned to go back to the shop. “Symington’ll be here to-night,” he pursued. “There ought to ha’ been a letter from him this morning, so I wired him. Maybe we’ll manage to put everything right yet. I wish we had your niece’s address.” She faced him. “If I had it, I wouldna tell ye,” she said quietly. “It’ll be enough if I ha’ to sacrifice myself. Speak no more to me about this business, John Corrie, for I ha’ nothing more to say. Only terrible thoughts.” And with that she left him. CHAPTER XIV COLIN HAYWARD began the journey south with much to wonder about. He had obtained no light whatever on the extraordinary affair in front of the burning house, for Sam had not recovered consciousness. It was, indeed, doubtful whether he would ever do so. Colin had not the slightest suspicion as to the identity of the muffled coward whom he had seen fell the half-suffocated postman; he had not, owing to position, observed the former take anything from the latter’s helpless hand; neither had he in his rage noticed the crushed letter fall. It was in his path as he turned to the victim’s succour, and he had picked it up almost automatically, with some vague notion that it might be of consequence to somebody or other. Then he had forgotten about it.