He looked at his hands, at his thin neck, at the hollows in his cheeks and the emotional quiver at the corner of his mouth, and he knew the man was a fanatic, a civilized fanatic, but desperately and even horribly in earnest.  A believer in torment, a man who held the vigorous faith that makes for martyrdom and can also pile wood for the fires that burn the bodies of others for the eventual welfare of their souls.  Unquestionably, the Rev. Francis Heath was a man not to be judged by an average inch rule, and Coryndon thought over him as he listened to his voice and watched his strained, tempest-tossed face.  Whether he was involved in the disappearance of Absalom or not, he recognized that Heath was a strong man, and that his ill-balanced force would need very little to make him a violent man.  It surprised him less to think that Hartley attached suspicion to the Rector of St. Jude’s than it had at first, and he left the church with a very clear impression of the clergyman put carefully away beside his appreciation of Leh Shin’s assistant.  He had caught just a glimpse of the personality of the man, and was busy building it up bit by bit, working out his idea by first trying to fathom the temperament that dwelt in the spare body and drove and wore him hour after hour.

The Rev. Francis Heath had paid some Chinaman to keep silence, but though he might pay a Chinaman, he could do nothing with his own conscience, and it was with a hidden adversary that he wrestled day and night.  Coryndon’s face was pitiless as the face of a vivisecting surgeon.  Had she known of his mission, Mrs. Wilder might have beaten her beautiful head on the stones under his feet, and she would have gained nothing whatever of concession or mercy.

Atkins and the Barrister were dining with Hartley that night, and as Coryndon never cared to hurry over his dressing, he went at once to his room and called Shiraz.

“All is well, my Master,” said Shiraz, in a low voice.  “But it would be wise if the Master were to curse his servant in a loud voice, since it is expected that he will do so, and the monkey-folk in the servants’ quarter listen without, concealing their pleasure in the Sahib’s wrath.”

When the proceedings terminated and Coryndon had accepted his servant’s long excuse for his delay, the doors were closed, Shiraz having first gone out to shake his fist at Hartley’s boy.

“Thus much have I discovered, Lord Sahib,” said Shiraz, when he had explained that the house was in readiness and the necessary furniture bought and stored temporarily at the shop of Leh Shin, the Chinaman.  “There is an old hate between these two men, he of the devil shop, and the Chinaman, a hate as old as rust that eats into an iron bar.”

Coryndon lay back in his chair and listened without remark.

“Among many lies told unto me, that is true; and again, among many lies, it is also true that he had not, neither did he ever possess, the gold lacquer bowl, on the subject of which my Master bade me question him.  He knows not how Mhtoon Pah found it, but he believes that it was through a sorcery he practised, for the man is as full of evil as the chatti lifted from the brink of the well is full of water.”