nner towards her clerical guest with heightening interest.

Usually she was very sure of herself, more especially so in her own
house, and surrounded with the evidences of her husband's official rank.
When Mrs. Wilder talked to the poor, insignificant Padre who could be of
no real social assistance to her, she changed her manner, the manner
that she directed pointedly towards Coryndon, and became quelled and
softened.

Mrs. Wilder, propitiatory and diffident, was, Coryndon felt, Mrs. Wilder
caught out somehow and somewhere; perhaps on the night of the 29th of
July, and as he considered it, Coryndon knew that the shoe was on a much
smaller foot than Hartley had measured for it, and that the secret
understanding between Heath and Mrs. Wilder was one-sided in its
benefits.

Hartley had recounted the story of the fainting fit as a landmark by
which he remembered where he was himself, and, adding this fact to what
he observed, Coryndon put Mrs. Wilder on one side and mentally drew a
red-ink line under her total. He knew all he needed to know about her,
and she had no further interest for his mind. He talked to her husband
when once he had satisfied himself definitely, and as dinner wore on the
atmosphere became more genial and less strained than when it had begun.

"By the way," said Wilder carelessly, "was it ever discovered how that
fellow Rydal got clear of the country?"

He spoke to Hartley, but Heath, who had been talking across the table to
Coryndon, lost his place, stumbled and recovered himself with
difficulty, and then lapsed into silence. Hartley had a few things to
say about Rydal, but chief among them was the astounding fact that he
had dodged the police, who were watching the wharves and jetties, and,
so far as he knew, the man had never left Mangadone.

"Do you suppose that he got away disguised?"

"Impossible," said Hartley, with decision. "He was a big, fair
Englishman with blue eyes. Nothing on earth could have made him look
anything else. It was too risky to attempt that game."

Mrs. Wilder was not interested in Rydal, and she sprayed Coryndon with
light, pointless conversation, leaving Heath to his meditations for the
moment. Hartley would have enjoyed a private talk with his hostess
because he loved her platonically, and because it was impossible he was
distrait and jerky, trying to appear cordial towards Heath. It was one
of those evenings that make everyone concerned wonder why they ever
began