that is
quite absurd." Atkins got up and terminated the interview. "It is absurd
to talk of suspicion," he said again, irritably. "I hope you will drop
that attitude, Hartley. If I had imagined for a moment that you were
likely to adopt it, I should have kept my mouth shut."

He went away, his narrow shoulders humped, and his whole figure
testifying to his annoyance, and Hartley sat alone, watching the
moonlight and thinking his own thoughts. He was interrupted by a woman's
voice, and Mrs. Wilder sat down in the chair left vacant by Atkins.

"What are you pondering about, Mr. Hartley? Are you seeing ghosts or
moon spirits? You certainly give the idea that you are immensely
preoccupied."

"Do I?" Hartley laughed awkwardly. "Well, as a matter of fact, I was not
thinking of anything very pleasant."

"Can I help?"--her voice was very soft and alluring.

"No one can, I am afraid."

She touched his arm with a little intimate gesture, and her eyes shone
in the moonlight.

"How can you say that? If I were in any sort of fix, or in any sort of
trouble, I would ask you to advise me, and to tell me what to do, before
I would go to anyone else, even Draycott, and why should you leave me
outside your worries?"

"You see, that's just it, they aren't exactly mine. If they were I
would tell you, but I can't tell you, because what I was thinking about
was connected entirely with someone else."

Mrs. Wilder's eyes narrowed, and she lifted her slightly pointed nose a
very little.

"Ah, now you make me inquisitive, and that is most unfair of you. Don't
tell me anything, Mr. Hartley, except just the name of the person
concerned. I'm very safe, as you know. Could you tell me the name, or
would it be wrong of you?"

"The name won't convey very much to you," said Hartley, laughing. "I was
thinking of the Padre, Heath. That doesn't give you much clue, does it?"

It was too dark for him to see a look that sprang into Mrs. Wilder's
eyes, or perhaps Hartley might have found a considerable disparity
between her look and her light words.

"Poor Mr. Heath, he is one of those terribly serious, conscientious
people, who go about life making themselves wretched for the good of
their souls. He ought to have lived in the Middle Ages. I won't ask you
_why_ you are thinking about him"--she got up and lingered a little, and
Hartley rose also--"but you know that you should not think of anyone
unless you want to make others think of them, too