In his pocket was a letter, the postmark on which would have told that it had been posted in London about midnight; a letter which he had been expecting for days, consisting of one pencilled word—“Arrested”—with neither address nor signature. And by that solitary word Corrie’s soul was racked, as between a man’s last hope and his final terror. Alone, Rachel put her hand to her face. “Oh God,” she murmured, “if only it had been possible. . . . But now the candle mun be left to burn—burn to the end. . . . Maybe—oh, surely—I’ll save him yet.” In her methodical way she cleared the table, washed the dishes, and set the kitchen in order. Afterwards she sat by the fire and tried to read the morning’s paper. She noticed that on the previous day Zeniths had risen to £6, but the sensational advance moved her not at all. Long after she had ceased to read she kept staring at the printed page. At seven o’clock, feeling her strength ebbing, and knowing how vital it was that she should conserve every spark of energy in her, she went up to her room and lay down. There was still another hour, possibly more, to wait and endure. . . . At last—at last the sound of running and excited shouts . . . a thundering on the door below . . . the opening of the door— “Mr. Corrie, the mill’s on fire!” A pause that seemed an age, then her brother’s voice, harsh, yet almost calm— “Rachel, the mill’s on fire!” “I’m coming,” she tried to call, producing naught but a croak. She got to the window in time to see him hastening away in the failing light. She made no attempt to follow just then. She lingered, crouching there behind the curtain, until the heavy silence informed her that practically the whole population of Dunford had bolted to the scene of destruction. Then body and wits under control once more, she took the implements she had prepared, cloaked herself and set out on the road to the mill. Not a soul was in sight. Her destination was the White Farm. At the door she knocked, ready to plead faintness should the unexpected happen. But no one came. She had gauged pretty accurately the duty sense of housekeeper and servants in the master’s absence. One and all had incontinently deserted the place and their occupations to see the fire she had raised. A chained dog barked wildly; she did not appear to hear it. The door was not locked. She entered and without hesitation climbed the stair. She had been welcome in the house in the old and happier days of Symington’s parents. She had often seen the strong box in its original place in the sitting-room. Doubtless it was upstairs. She was counting on that. If he had lately got a safe she had burned the mill to no purpose. . . . But God would not let her be cheated so, for was it not all done for her brother’s salvation? . . .