“Not a favour,” he said, taking her up quickly.  “God knows I have every reason to help you if I can.  Does Hartley suspect you?  Does he question you?  Does he try to wring admissions out of you?”

In the darkness Heath’s voice rang hard and, metallic, like the voice of a man whose thoughts return upon something that maddens him.

“He has not done so, but he has asked me questions that made me frightened.  It is a terrible thing to be afraid.”

“And Joicey?” said Heath in a quiet voice.  “I saw Joicey, but he did not stop to speak to me.  Has he, too, been interrogated?”

“So far as I know, he has not.  But this question presses only on me.  What took you there is, I feel sure, easily accounted for, and what took Mr. Joicey there is not likely to be a matter of the smallest importance; it is I who suffer, it is on me that all this weight lies.  If the police begin investigations they come close upon the fact that I went there to meet a man whom my husband has forbidden me to meet.  Any little turn of evidence that involves me, any little accident that obliges me to admit it, and I am lost,”—­her voice thrilled and pleaded.

“It is you who are lost,” he echoed dully.  “I can understand how you feel.  If I can ease your burden or lessen the anxiety you suffer from, you may depend upon me, Mrs. Wilder.  This matter is a dark road where I, too, walk blind, not knowing the path I follow, but, at least, I can give you my word that under no circumstances shall I be led to mention your name.  You can be sure of that, Mrs. Wilder.  If I can add your trouble to my own burden I shall not feel its weight, but I would counsel you to be honest with your husband.  Tell him the truth.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Wilder, with an acquiescence that came too quickly.  “I assure you that I will, but even when I do, you see what a position the least publicity places me in?”

Heath got up and paced the floor with long, restless strides.

“Publicity.  The open avowal of a hidden thing; the knowledge that the whole world judges and condemns, and does not understand.”

“That is what I feel.”

After all, he was more human than she had expected.  Clarice Wilder had looked upon the Rev. Francis as a hermit, an ascetic, whose comprehension was limited; and her eyes grew keen as she watched his gaunt figure.

“To be dragged down, to be accused, to be cast so low,” he continued, in his sad, heavy voice, “so low that the lowest have cause to deride and to scorn.”  He stopped before her.  “Is it true that I can save you from that?”

“It is true.”

She did not tell him that she had lied to Draycott; it did not appear necessary; neither did she tell him that Draycott’s memory was long and sure and unerring.

“Then, if there is one man in all God’s universe,”—­Heath cast out his arms as he spoke—­“one man above all others whom you could appeal to, could trust most entirely, that man is myself.  Give me your burden, your distress of mind, and I will take them; I cannot say more—­”