“It may be. It is certainly the address of the lady who took charge of her on the train, and now that I’ve got it, I’ll soon find where Kitty is.” “How did ye get it?” “Never mind. But it might be worth your while to send a wire, first thing in the morning to Kitty, at this address. Just say: ‘Serious for you if not home within twenty-four hours’ . . . How’s that?” Corrie groaned. “She wouldna come. . . . Maybe she’s seen the letter by this time.” “Maybe she hasn’t. It’s a chance anyway—your only chance, perhaps. Will you wire—put it stronger if you like—in the morning?” “I—I tell ye, she wouldna come.” Symington got to his feet. “I believe,” he said slowly, “it was a filthy lie about the post office money.” Corrie shrank in his chair. He was at the end of his endurance. “I did it,” he stammered “to help you.” “Did what?” “P—put the five-pun’ note in her drawer.” “God damn you!” cried Symington, raising his fist. “You did it to help yourself to half the—” He stopped short with a stifled curse. Miss Corrie came in with a lighted lamp, which she set on the table. “Are ye quarrelling?” she quavered. She seemed to have grown ten years older during the past forty-eight hours. Symington strode by her, but halted in the doorway. “I’m going back to London to-morrow,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want any more wires from you.” Thereupon he went out. Rachel turned to her brother. “John, John,” she cried piteously, “will he no’ help ye?” The unhappy man threw out his arms, let them fall on the edge of the table and bowed his face on them. Helplessly his sister regarded him, then turned and left him to himself. She went to her room and fell on her knees. Had Kitty appeared in that hour, one may presume that she would have been offered the miserable confession of a miserable sinner. But there is an old saying concerning the devil when he was sick. . . . * * * * * Shortly, after eight the following morning, Colin, carrying a light overcoat and a small suitcase, entered the post office. The dingy place was flooded with sunlight; even the passage to the shop was filled with it. The counter was unattended. Upon it Colin laid the suitcase and coat. Raising the lid he disclosed among sundry articles pertaining to a lengthy night journey a little box camera. For a moment or two he fingered it somewhat nervously. Then at the back—i.e., the bottom—of the case he drew aside a strip of leather, uncovering a small round hole against which he fitted the eye of the camera. He let down the lid so far: it was kept from closing by his left hand which remained inside. Presently, drawing a long breath, he rapped smartly on the counter. Almost immediately Miss Corrie appeared in the short passage. At the sight of him she seemed to stumble, and as she recovered herself he said— “Can I see Mr. Corrie for a moment?”