He paused and looked at Coryndon, longing to put a question to
him, but not wishing to break their agreement as to silence.

"Tell me about Rydal," said Coryndon in the voice of a man who shifts a
conversation adroitly. "I don't remember your having mentioned the
case."

Hartley had not much to tell. The man had been in a position of
responsibility in the Mangadone Bank, and Joicey had given information
against him the very day he absconded. Rydal was married, and the cruel
part of the story lay in the fact that he had deserted his wife on her
deathbed, fully aware that she was dying.

"She died the evening he left, or was supposed to have left. At all
events, the evening he disappeared."

"And the date?"

Coryndon's eyes were turned on Hartley's face, and he heard him laugh.

"You'll hardly believe it, but it happened, like everything else, on the
twenty-ninth of July."

"Can your boy look after me for a few days?" Coryndon asked quietly. "I
was not able to bring my bearer with me, and I may have to be here for a
little longer than I had expected."

"Of course he can."

They walked into the bungalow together, and it surprised and distressed
Hartley to see how white and weary the face of his friend showed under
the hanging lamp.

"I ought not to have dragged you out," he said remorsefully.

"I am very glad you did."

There was so much sincerity in Coryndon's tone that Hartley was
satisfied, and he saw him into his room before he went off, whistling to
his dog and calling out a cheery "Good night."

XVIII

THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH UNLOCKS HIS DOOR AND SHOWS WHAT LIES BEHIND

When Coryndon made up his mind to any particular course of action and
time pressed, he left nothing to chance. Under ordinary circumstances,
he was perfectly ready to wait and let things happen naturally; and so
greatly did he adhere to this belief in chance that he always hesitated
to make anything deliberately certain. Had he felt that he could allow
time to bring circumstance into his grasp, he would have preferred to do
so, but, as he sat on the side of his bed, his _chota haziri_ untouched
on a table at his elbow, he knew that every minute counted, and that he
must come out of the shadow and deliberately face and force the
position.

If he could always have worked in the dark he would have done so, and no
one ever guessed how unwillingly he disclosed himself. He was a shadow
in the great structure of criminal investiga