“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.”

“Heath never explained anything?”

“No, I never asked him to.”

“What happened then?” Hartley’s voice was hardly above a whisper, and he leaned close to Atkins to listen.

“I slept for hours, fairly hogged it until it must have been two or three in the morning, judging by the light, and then I awoke suddenly, the way one wakes when there is some noise that is different to usual noises, and after a moment or two I heard the sound of voices, and I got out of bed and went very quietly into the veranda.  Heath’s lamp was burning, his room is at the far end from mine, and I stood there, shivering like a leaf out of sheer jumps.  I had a regular ‘night attack’ feeling over me.  I heard a chair pushed back, and I heard Heath say in a low voice ’If you come here again, or if you dog me again, I’ll hand you over to the police,’ and the man laughed.  I can’t describe his laugh; it was the most damnable thing I ever listened to, and I thought of running in, but something stopped me, God knows why.  ‘Take your pay,’ said Heath; I heard him say it, and then I heard the door open again, and the same sound of feet.”  He shivered.  “They stopped outside my room, and I caught the outline of a head, a huge head and enormous, heavy shoulders, and then he was gone.”

“Why the devil didn’t you raise the alarm?” Hartley’s voice was angry.  “You’ve got a policeman on the road.  Why didn’t you shout?”

“Because I was thinking of Heath,” said Atkins a little stiffly.  “He is the man we have both got to think about.  Some devil of a native is blackmailing him, and Heath is one of the best and straightest men I know.  Not one item of all this mystery goes against him in my mind, but what I want you to do, is to have the bungalow watched.”

“I shall certainly do that,” said Hartley with decision.  “And as for your opinion of Heath—­well, it strikes me as curious that a man of good character should be a mark for blackmail.”

“I explain facts by people, not people by facts,” said Atkins hotly.  “And I have told you—­”

“I think it is only fair to say that you have told me something that lays Heath under suspicion,” said Hartley, slowly.  “He behaved very oddly, lately, when I asked him a simple question, and he chose to refuse to see me when I went to his house.  All that was a small matter, but what you tell me now is serious.”