“Why the devil is he talking like this and looking like this?” Hartley asked himself, impatiently.

“I’m not a cross-examining counsel,” he said, with some sharpness.  “As I told you before, Heath, it is only a very small matter.”

The Rev. Francis Heath gripped the back of his chair and a slight flush mounted to his face.

“I resent your questions, Mr. Hartley.  What I did or did not do on the evening of July the twenty-ninth can in no way affect you.  I entirely refuse to be made to answer anything.  You have no right to ask me, and I have no intention of replying.”

Hartley put his hand out in dismay.

“Really, Heath, your attitude is quite absurd.  I have already told one man to-day that he was going mad; are you dreaming, man?  I only want you to help me, and you talk as if I had accused you of something.  There is nothing criminal in being seen in Paradise Street after sundown.”

Mr. Heath stood holding by the back of his chair, looking over Hartley’s head, his dark eyes burning and his face set.

“Come, then,” said the police officer abruptly, “who did you see?  Did you, for instance, see the Christian boy, Absalom, Mhtoon Pah’s assistant?”

The Rev. Francis Heath made no answer.

“Did you see him?”

“I will not answer any further questions, but since you ask me, I did see the boy.”

“Thank you, Heath; that took some getting at.  Now will you tell me if you saw him again later:  I am supposing that you went down the wharf and came back, shall I say, in an hour’s time.  Did you see Absalom again?”

The clergyman stared out of the window, and his pause was of such intensely long duration that when he said the one word, “No,” it fell like the splash of a stone dropped into a deep well.

Hartley looked at his sleeve-links for quite a long time.

“Good night, Heath,” he said, getting up, but the Rev. Francis Heath made no reply.

Hartley went back to his bungalow with something to think about.  He had always regarded Heath as a difficult and rather violently religious man.  They had never been friends, and he knew that they never could be friends, but he respected the man even without liking him.  Now he was quite convinced that Heath, after some deliberation with his conscience, had lied to him, and it made him angry.  He had admitted, with the greatest reluctance, that he had been through Paradise Street, and seen the boy, and his declaration that he had not seen him again did not ring with any real conviction.  It made the whole question more interesting, but it made it unpleasant.  If things came to light that called the inquiry into court, the Rev. Francis Heath might live to learn that the law has a way of obliging men to speak.  If Hartley had ever been sure of anything in his life, he was sure that Heath knew something of Absalom, and knew where he had gone in search of the gold lacquer bowl that was desired by Mrs. Wilder.  He made up his mind to see Mrs. Wilder and ask her about the order for the bowl; but he hardly thought of her, his mind was full of the mystery that attached itself to the question of the Rector of St. Jude’s parish, and his fierce and angry refusal to talk reasonably.