For a moment he was taken aback. Then—“As ye please,” he said, and after a short pause added: “I expect your niece will get the shares before long.” He did not look at her, nor did she at him as she replied— “Very well, John. I’ll be glad when it’s a’ settled.” She left the house at the hour the train was due, and took the road which led to White Farm and also to the mill, a couple of miles farther on. Symington arrived at the cottage in a bad humour. “What the devil do you keep on bothering me for?” he demanded the moment he was in the parlour. “I’m going ahead as quickly as I can. Do you want me to ruin the whole thing by rushing it.” “No use in losing your temper,” said Corrie coldly. “It’s a fortnight past since ye started to get a hold o’ the girl. I want to ken what ye’ve been doing in London, besides enjoying yourself.” “Don’t talk about enjoyment! I tell you I’ve been busy the whole time.” “Well, what ha’ ye done?” Symington took out a cigar. “Look here—what are you trying to drive me for? What’s at the back of this cry for haste?” “There’s a chance o’ the postman getting better.” “Well, curse him for a nuisance, and you for a bungler!” “Mind, I’ve got that letter!” snarled Corrie. “You’d never use it? . . . However, I may tell you that I’ve completed my arrangements for the capture of Miss Kitty.” “And what may they be?” “I think I’d better not tell you. You’re so tender-hearted!” A grey shadow came over Corrie’s face. “Is—is it going to hurt her?” he whispered. “I canna consent to her being hurt—seriously.” Symington laughed shortly. “You think I’d hurt Kitty, do you? Sometimes I fancy you’re a bit cracked, Corrie! Well, I must admit it’s going to be a little unpleasant, inconvenient, for her—but nothing worse. She’s going to disappear for a time—” “Where?” “You’re better not to know in case you’re asked—see?” The postmaster plucked at his lower lip. “Maybe,” he mumbled, “maybe.” “And young Hayward’s going to disappear likewise.” “God! Are ye no’ afraid? . . . But how am I to believe ye?” “Give me four days—a week at most. Now, don’t ask any more questions, for I’m not going to answer them. As I said, you’re better not to know anything.” “Just one. How long will it take, think ye to—to make her give in?” Symington had drunk a good deal of wine on the train, or he might not have answered as he did. “How long does it take to starve a healthy man?” * * * * * In the dusk Symington was nearing the farm when, from a gate in the hedge, Rachel Corrie stepped into his path. “I want a word wi’ ye, Mr. Symington,” she said bluntly. “Well?” “And first I’ll tell ye that John Desna ken o’ this.” “Go on.” He was annoyed at the interruption, for he had much to think of before he slept that night, and he was returning to London by the early morning train. Also he was tormented by a craving for something to drink. “’Tis about the Zeniths,” she proceeded.