“Happy birds that sing and fly
    Round Thy altars, O Most High.”

The choir sang the “Amen,” and sang it false, because they were in a hurry to troop out of the church; the girls were whispering and collecting gloves and books, and the boys were already clattering off with an air of relief.  Heath spoke to the organist, making some suggestion in his grave, quiet voice, and when he turned, Coryndon was standing in the chancel.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” he asked easily.

“Come into the vestry,” said Heath quietly.  “We shall be undisturbed there.”

He went down the chancel steps and opened a door at the side, waiting for Coryndon to go in, and closing the door behind them.  A table stood in the middle of the room with a few books and papers on it, and a square window lighted it from the western wall; there were only two chairs in the room, and Heath put one of them near the table for his visitor, and took the other himself.

He did not know what he expected Coryndon to say; men very rarely came to him like this, but he felt that it was possible that he was in search of something true and definite.  Truth was in his eyes, and his dark, fine face was earnest as he bent forward and looked full at the clergyman.

“What can I do for you?”

Heath put the question tentatively, conscious of a sudden quick tension in the atmosphere.

Coryndon’s eyes fixed on him, like gripping hands, and he leaned a little over the table.

“You can tell me how and when you got Rydal out of the country.”

For a moment, it seemed to Heath that the whole room rocked, and that blackness descended upon him in waves, blotting out the face of the man who asked the question, destroying his identity, and leaving him only the knowledge that the secret that he had guarded with all the strength of his soul was known, inexplicably, to Hartley’s friend.  He tried to frame a reply, but his words faltered through dry lips, and his face was white and set.

“Why should you say that I helped Rydal?”

“Because,” Coryndon’s answer came quickly, “you told me so yourself last night at dinner.”

He heard Coryndon speak again, very slowly, so that every word came clear into the confusion of his throbbing brain.

“I knew from Hartley that you were in Paradise Street on the evening of the twenty-ninth of July, and that you saw and spoke to Absalom.  I am concerned in the case of finding that boy or his murderer, and anything you can tell me may be of help to me in putting my facts together.  I had to come to your confidence by a direct question.  Will you pardon me when you consider my motive?  I am not concerned with Rydal:  my case is with Absalom.”

He looked sympathetically at the worn, drawn face across the table, that was white and sick with recent fear.

“Tell me the events just as they came,” he said gently.  “You may be able to cast light on the matter.”