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Updated: June 24, 2025


Joicey in the afternoons." "May I send in my card?" asked Coryndon. "Certainly, if you wish to do so." Coryndon took a pencil out of his pocket, and, scribbling on the corner of his card, enclosed it in an envelope, and waited in the dark hall, where electric fans flew round like huge bats, the smooth-mannered young man keeping him courteous company. "Mr.

Joicey was not a cheerful companion, and in his present mood Fitzgibbon, the Barrister, would have suited Hartley better; but he had asked Joicey, and Joicey was on his way, thinking about Bank business in all probability, thinking of money lent out at interest, thinking of careful ledgers and neat rows of figures, and certainly not in the least likely to be thinking of the Chinese quarter, or of a person of so small account, financially, as Absalom, the Christian native.

"If Heath said he saw me, Heath was wrong." "Heath didn't say so," said Hartley. "It was the policeman on duty at the corner who said that he had seen you." "I tell you I wasn't in the place," said Joicey again. Hartley coughed awkwardly. "Well, if you weren't there, you weren't there," he said, pacifically. "And Heath, what did Heath say?"

His head nodded forward, and his lower lip dropped, and yet his eyes were open, as he sat facing the small squatting Buddha, whose changeless face changed only for him. The three little flute-notes tripped out after each other with no semblance at a tune, repeating and reiterating the sound in the dark outside, and Joicey listened as though something of weight depended upon his hearing steadily.

Joicey rests at this time of day," he explained. "I hope you quite understand the difficulty." "I quite understand," replied Coryndon, "but I think he will see me." There was a pause. The young man did not wish to contradict him, but he felt that he knew the ways and hours of the Head of the Firm very much better than a mere stranger arriving on foot just as the Bank was due to close for the day.

"You look as if you had fever." "I'm all right," Joicey spoke absently. "It's this infernally stuffy weather, and the evenings." "I'm glad it's that," laughed Fitzgibbon, "I thought that it might be me. I'm so broke that even my tea at Chota haziri is getting badly overdrawn." "Dine with me on Saturday," suggested Hartley, "I've seen very little of you just lately." Joicey looked up and nodded.

Wilder had a very small allowance of her own, paid quarterly through a Devonshire bank, but more than this he neither knew nor wished to know of them, and he never went to their house. Joicey had not "worn well"; there was no denying that sweating years of Burmese rains and hot weathers had made him prematurely old. His thick hair was patched with white, and his face was flabby and yellow.

Joicey tore up the card and threw it into a basket beside the writing-table. "It may interest you to know," went on Coryndon easily, "that my visit to you is not altogether prompted by idle curiosity." He smiled reflectively. "No, I feel sure that you will not call it that." "Fire ahead, then," said Joicey, whose very evident resentment was by no means abated.

Joicey, whose evidence marked a later hour than that of Heath, had seen him alone, and the solitary figure of the small boy hurrying into the dark was the last record that indicated the way he had gone.

I wish you could tell me, Joicey, if you saw Heath that evening when you went down Paradise Street. It was the same evening that the Bank laid their information against Rydal, the twenty-ninth."

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