“I’d at least think over it,” Risk replied cheerfully. “I’ll give you half an hour. I have an engagement now—with a photographer, of all people—and I’m sure you would like a bath and a change of linen after those journeyings. My man will look after you.” He pressed a bell-button on the table. “And while you are thinking over it, please keep remembering this: that there is only one right way of doing a thing—which is my way!” He laughed and extended his hand. Then he became grave. “Hugh Carstairs once rendered a great service to my mother when she was abroad and alone. He is dead, but I remember always. And if any man tries to rob Hugh Carstairs’ daughter, and cheat Hugh in his grave—then God help that man! He shall not escape me!” The servant opened the door and stood at attention. Knowing not what to think, Colin rose and passed out. * * * * * At the same hour Hilda Risk was ascending to her flat in Long Acre. On the second landing she came to an abrupt stop. She had walked from her brother’s home, intending to make a purchase on the way—and had forgotten all about it. “Trying to think of too many things at once,” she reprimanded herself, and retraced her steps. As she emerged upon the street she almost collided with a man apparently about to enter. He drew back with a muttered apology, and she passed on her way with a vague feeling of having seen him before. He had a sharp, rather pinched countenance, small dark moustache, and his bowler hat was decidedly shabby. So much she noticed. Then she dismissed the matter, proceeded on her errand, returned home to find Kitty happy at the typewriter, but happier still to see her, and settled down to some journalistic work which was to keep her busy most of the evening. As for the man, he made for Covent Garden telegraph office. In the middle of the night, being wakeful, she had an odd recollection of the pinched face under the shabby bowler. And now she remembered where she had seen the man before. Why, only half an hour had elapsed between the first and second encounter! For she had noticed him on the opposite pavement as she was leaving Aberdare Mansions. “The beast followed me!” she thought suddenly. CHAPTER XV “YOU bungler!” Mr. Symington’s countenance was sickly; his voice was full of cold and bitter disgust. The wretched Corrie had come to the end of his sorry confession, not without interruptions mainly of an angry, abusive nature. And now the verdict—“You bungler!” Somehow it stung most of all. “It’s easy to call names,” he rejoined resentfully. “I’m no’ the only bungler. If ever a man let a girl slip through his fingers it was you. Ye should ha’ had her easy that night—while she was terrified—after she had taken the post office money—” “I don’t believe she took any money—” “Then how could she pay her fare to London?” “Probably the postman lent—gave—her it.”