mur of sound.

"It is understood at the outset," began Atkins, clearing his throat with
a crowing sound, "that what I have to say is said strictly in a private
and confidential sense. I only say it because I am driven to do so."

Hartley's basket chair squeaked as he moved, but he said nothing, and
Atkins dropped his voice into an intimate tone and went on:

"You came to see Heath one day lately, and I told you he was ill. Well,
so he was, but there are illnesses of the mind as well as of the body,
and Heath was mind-sick. I am a light sleeper, Hartley. I wake at a
sound, and twice lately I have been awakened by sounds."

"The _Durwan_," suggested Hartley.

"Not the _Durwan_. If it had been, I would not have spoken to you about
it. Heath has been visited towards morning by a man, and it was the
sound of voices that awoke me. It is no business of mine to pry or to
talk, and I would say nothing if it were not that I admire and respect
Heath, and I believe that he is in some horrible difficulty, out of
which he either will not, or cannot, extricate himself."

"Who was the man?"

Atkins ignored the question.

"I admit that I listened, but I overheard almost nothing, except just
the confused sounds of talking in low voices, but I heard Heath say, 'I
will not endure it, I am bearing too much already.' I think he spoke
more to himself than to the man in his room, but it was a ghastly thing
to hear, as he said it."

"Go on," said Hartley. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I heard the door on to the back veranda open, and I heard the sound of
feet go along it--bare feet, mind you, Hartley--and then I went to
sleep. That was a week ago."

"And something of the same nature has occurred since?"

Atkins dried his hands with his handkerchief.

"I said something to Heath at breakfast about having had a bad night,
and he got up at once and left the table. After that nothing happened
until last night. I had been out all day, and came home dog-tired. I
turned in early and left Heath reading a theological book in the
veranda. I said, I remember, 'I'm absolutely beat, Padre; I have had
enough to-day to give me nine or ten hours without stirring,' and he
looked up and said, 'Don't complain of that, Atkins; there are worse
things than sound sleep.' It struck me then that he hadn't known what it
was for weeks, he looked so gaunt and thin, and I thought again of that
other night that we had neither of us spoken about."

"Heat