Without answering she turned and went back. It seemed many minutes before Corrie himself appeared. Colin thought he had never seen a more ghastly-looking creature. The countenance was unreadable, but the man’s soul was torn between terror and hope. As he stepped into the office there was a scarcely audible click from the suit-case. “Morning,” he said huskily, and ran his tongue over his lips. “Morning, Mr. Corrie,” replied Colin, fairly cheerfully. He raised the lid and brought forth a sealed envelope without superscription. He handed it over the counter, saying, “You might look and see if the paper enclosed belongs to you.” Corrie took it with shaking fingers and moved back from the counter. He cleared his throat. “Ye mean me to open it, Mr. Hayward?” “Certainly,” Colin could have pitied the man as he turned a second film silently into position. The envelope was very firmly gummed, and Corrie’s fingers fumbled in a fashion painful to witness. But at last it was torn open—the precious letter was in his hand. He looked as if he were going to cry. Now the click might have been ten times louder without his hearing it. He was dazed with relief. Colin closed the case, feeling almost guilty. “Is it yours, Mr. Corrie?” Corrie seemed to pull himself together. “Aye, it’s mine, sure enough, and—and I’m obliged to ye, Mr. Hayward.” The old cunning came to his aid. “I lost it more’n a week ago. Might I ask where ye found it?” “On the grass across the road from the postman’s house, while it was burning,” answered Colin, as naturally as he could. “Well, well! That’s mysterious, for it’s more’n a month since I was that road, except the morning after the fire. Somebody mun ha’ found it and lost it again. Well, once more, I’m obliged to ye, though the paper’s no’ o’ any great consequence. It was written by my poor brother-in-law when he wasna quite right in his head. Still, I’m glad to have it, Mr. Hayward, thank ye.” “I should explain,” said Colin, concealing with an effort his disgust, “that after I picked it up I forgot about it until I was in the train for London. Good morning, Mr. Corrie.” He caught up case and coat, and hurried out before Corrie could frame another sentence. “Rachel!—here, quick!” She came in haste, almost weeping. “Oh, John, John, ha’ ye got it back?” “Aye,” he answered shortly, with something of his old truculence of tone. “Oh, God be thanked!” she murmured. “Ye’ll ha’ to manage by yourself for an hour,” he said rapidly, “I mun hurry to White Farm—” “But now, John, ye’ll tell Kitty the truth,” she cried excitedly. “I got her address this morning. I can trust ye wi’ it now, for ye’re a changed man, as I’m a changed woman—” “What’s the address?” “366 Long Acre, London—care o’ Miss Risk.” “I’ll mind it. Well, I mun run, or I’ll miss Symington. I’ll master him yet—aye, I will that, by God!”