Coryndon sat very still.  Heath had come to the point where the real interest began:  he could see this on the sad face that turned towards the western window.

“In the early hours of one morning towards the end of July,” went on Heath wearily, “I was awakened by Rydal coming into my room.  I could see at once that he was in desperate trouble, and he sat down near me and hid his face in his hands and cried like a child.  There was enough in his story to account for his tears, God knows.  His wife was ill, perhaps dying; he told me that first, but that I already knew, and then he made his confession to me.  He had embezzled money from the bank and it could only be a matter of hours before a warrant was issued for his arrest.  I must not dwell too long on these details, but they are all part of the story, and without them you could not understand my own place in what follows.  It is sufficient to tell you that I returned at once with him, and his wife added her appeal to mine to make her husband agree to leave the country.  If she lived, she could join him later, but if he was arrested before she died, she could only feel double torment and remorse.  In the end we prevailed upon him to agree to go.  The sin was not his morally”—­Heath’s voice rose in passionate vindication of his act—­“in my eyes, and, I believe, in the eyes of God, the man was not responsible.  I grant you his criminal weakness, I grant you his fall from honour and honesty, but then and now I know that I did right.  The one chance for his soul’s welfare was the chance of escape.  Prison would have broken and destroyed him.  A white man among native criminals.  His life had been a good life, and an open, honest life up to the time that his wife’s constant demand for what he could not give broke down the barriers and made him a felon.”

He wiped his face with his handkerchief and drew a deep breath.  This was how he had argued the point with himself, and he still held to the validity of his argument.

“That was early on the morning of July the twenty-ninth?” asked Coryndon.

“Yes, that was the date.  There was a small tramp in port, going to South America.  I had once been of some little assistance to the captain, and I knew that he would do much to serve me.  I went on board her at once, and saw him, disguising none of the facts or the risk it entailed, and he agreed willingly to assist Rydal.  He was to be at a certain point below the wharves that evening, and the Lady Helen was to send a boat in to pick him up.”

“I understand,” said Coryndon, “the warrant was issued about noon the same day?”

“As far as I know, Joicey gave information against him just about then, but he had already left the bungalow.  I went down Paradise Street to make my way out along the river bank at a little after six o’clock.  I passed Absalom in the street and spoke a word to the boy, but time was pressing and I did not dare to be late.  It was of the utmost importance that there should be no hitch in any part of the plan, for the Lady Helen could not delay over an hour.  I got to the appointed place by the river just after twilight had come on—­”