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Updated: June 24, 2025
He had to collect himself with definite force, as a child's attention is recalled to a lesson-book. "He has cleared Leh Shin," he said to himself, and at first exactly all that the words meant was not clear to his mind. Joicey had cleared the Chinaman of complicity, and had knocked the whole structure of carefully selected evidence away with a few words.
It would be known as fire is known when the forest is dry. To-morrow or next day, if the police are gone, my little house will be open again." He spoke the words with deep emphasis. "Get out," said Joicey, turning away his head. Leh Shin looked at him with a sudden, oblique glance like the flash of a knife.
Joicey was standing by a table, looking at Coryndon's card and twisting it between his fingers. He recognized his visitor when he glanced at him, and showed some surprise. The room was in twilight, as all the outside chicks were down, and there was a lingering faint perfume of something sweet and cloying in the air.
"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.
He looked tired enough to make any excuse of exhaustion or ill-health quite a valid one, and Hartley was concerned for his friend. "Don't overdo it, Joicey," he said. "Overdo what?" Joicey got up with the heavy lift of an old, weary man, and yet there was not two years between him and Hartley. "The insomnia," said Hartley.
Joicey sat down again, a mere torment-racked mass, deprived of the help of his pretence, defenceless and helpless because his sin had found him out in the person of a slim, dark-faced man, who looked at him with burning pity in his eyes. The world jests at the abstract presentment of vice.
"I want to miss nothing." Coryndon turned his head away and looked at the crowded room, fixing his gaze on a whirring fan that hung low on a brass rod, and when he looked round again, Joicey had got up and was making his way out into the night.
Joicey did not set the glass back on to the table, he held it between him and the light, and eyed it, or, rather, it should be said that he watched his own hand, and when he saw that it was quite steady he set down the wine untasted. "Paradise Street? I never go down there. I wasn't in Mangadone that night," his face was dead white with a sick, leprous whiteness.
Again a voice whispered, and a low sound of discreet knocking followed. Joicey sprang up and called out hoarsely: "Who is it?" "Sahib, Sahib" the Durwan's whine was apologetic. "Is the Sahib awake?" "Who wants me?" "Leh Shin, the Chinaman." Joicey wiped his face with his handkerchief and pulled open the door with a violent movement. "Come in," he said, trying to speak naturally.
He was a large, heavy man, representative in figure and slow and careful of speech. He kept the secrets of his bank, and he kept his own secrets, if he had any, and was a walking tomb for confidences not known as "tender." No one would have attempted to tell him their affairs of the heart, but almost anyone with money to invest would go direct to Craven Joicey.
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