tion, and he came and went
like a shadow. When it was possible he vanished out of his completed
case before his agency was detected, and as he sat thinking, he wondered
if Hartley could not be trusted with the task that lay before him that
day, but even as the thought came into his mind he decided against it.
Opportunity must be nailed like false coin to the counter, and there
could be no question of leaving a meeting to the last moment of chance.
He had to make sure of his man; that was the first step.

During the course of an idle morning, Coryndon wandered to the church,
and saw that at 5.30 p.m. the Rev. Francis Heath was holding service.
After the service there would be a choir practice, and Coryndon, having
made a mental note of the hour, went back to luncheon with Hartley.

The afternoon sunlight was dreaming in the garden, and the drowsy air
was full of the scent of flowers. Coryndon had something to do, and he
was wise enough to make no settled plan as to how he would do it,
beforehand. He put away all thought of Absalom and the other lives
connected with the disappearance of the Christian boy, and let his
thoughts drift out, drawing in the light and colour of the world
outside.

Yesterday has power over to-day; to-morrow even greater power, for
to-morrow holds a gift or a whip, and Coryndon knew this, thinking out
his little philosophy of life. To be able to handle a situation which
may require a strength that is above tact or diplomacy, he knew that all
those yesterdays must give their store of gathered strength and
knowledge.

As there was no running water to watch, Coryndon watched the shadows and
the light playing hide-and-go-seek through the leaves, through his
half-closed eyes. They made a pattern on the ground, and the pattern was
faultless in its beauty. Nature alone can do such things. He looked at
the far-off trees of the park, green now, to turn into soft blue masses
later on when the day waned, and the intrinsic value of blue as colour
flitted over his fancy. The music that was part of his nature rippled
and sang in obligato to his thoughts, and because he loved music he
loved colour and knew the connection between sound and tint. Colour, to
its lightest, least value, was music, expressing itself in another way.

Hartley went out with his dog; went softly because he believed his
friend slept, and Coryndon did not stir. Somewhere in the centre of
things actual, Hartley lived his cheerful, happy