“I can catch the 11.30 train,” said Colin, who was already acquiring the decisive ways of his friend and employer, “and may be there in time to see him to-night. You wish me to return at once?” “I want you to take in Dunford on your way back and get me one or two photos. I’ll give you a note of what I require along with the camera. But that needn’t take you more than a couple of hours. Don’t you want to look up your people?” “They’re all from home this month—thank you for thinking of it. I ought to tell you that my father and I have made it up—through the post.” “That’s right! Now, before you go, will you do me a rough sketch of the postman’s house before it was burned—that is, a drawing of the front, showing door, windows, etc., as correctly proportioned as you can make them. Jot the colourings at the side. . . . One thing more: you might break your return journey at Newcastle, for an hour or so. My sister and Miss Carstairs will be there to-morrow. I’ll wire you where to find them to the hospital this afternoon.” Colin felt grateful, but merely returned a “Very well, Mr. Risk,” and he hastened to his own office to get through the work on hand. The request for a sketch of Sam’s old house puzzled him, as did the photographic business, but he possessed the valuable wit for knowing when to suppress questions. Risk immediately plunged into a small ocean of correspondence. He had an extraordinary number of financial interests, and they really interested him apart from their finance. . . . A secretary entered. “Mr. Boon, of the Westminster Film Co., is here, sir. He has an appointment with you.” Risk glanced at the clock. “In two minutes,” he said, returning to the correspondence, “show him in.” The secretary knew by this time that two minutes to Mr. Risk meant exactly 120 seconds and on the 121st Mr. Boon was admitted. His visit lasted about fifteen minutes. Before he left he was introduced to Colin, with whom he had a few minutes’ conversation, which was probably more enlightening to himself than to the young man; and he took away with him the rude sketch of the Dunford postman’s abode. Rather late in the evening Colin, by special permission, was sitting at Sam’s bedside. The postman was still weak, and the nurse had warned the visitor against anything in the way of excitement, but his memory was clear enough, and there was not, after all, a great deal to be remembered. Colin was soon in possession of the few facts worth having; they formed, at least, a valuable little appendix to Kitty’s story. As to his assailant on the night of the fire, Sam frankly admitted that he had nothing better than suspicions to offer; yet he was convinced that the house had been deliberately set on fire, and that he had been assaulted in his weakness either by Corrie, or Symington, or both.