Hartley’s peace of mind was soon shattered again, this time by a new element that Hartley had not thought of, and so he was caught in another net without any previous warning.

Atkins, the rector of St. Jude’s bungalow companion, was a dry little man, adhering to simple facts, and neither a sensationalist nor an alarmist; therefore his words had weight.  He was a small man, always dressed in clothes a little too small, with his whole mind given up to the subject of his profession; besides which he was religious, a non-smoker, a teetotaller, and particular upon these points.

Being but little in the habit of going into Mangadone society, he seldom met Hartley except at the Club, and it was there that he ran him into a corner and asked for a word or two in private.  Hartley took him out into the dim green space where basket chairs were set at intervals, and drawing two well away from the others, sat down to listen.

Sweet scents were wafted up on the evening air, and drowsy, dark clouds followed the moonlike heavy wisps of black cotton-wool, drowning the light from time to time and then clearing off again; and all over the grass, glimmering groups of men in white clothes and women in trailing skirts filled the air with an indistinct murmur 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.”