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Mhtoon Pah had boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at, but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outward things, whilst the Boy and the Khitmutghar flitted in and out behind them, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with a quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind.
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." Heath looked up, and his eyes expressed his silent acceptance of Coryndon's honesty of purpose. "I will tell you, Mr. Coryndon.
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.
"I shall place the buttons in his shirt, and recover an eight-anna piece from the floor, which the master dropped yesterday, to deliver to him when he shall return. Seek to be honest in thy youth, my son, for in later life it will repay thee." Hartley's boy had not been mistaken when he heard Coryndon ask for a prayer-book and saw him go out on foot. The small persistent bell outside St.
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.
"Not in Mangadone, Mr. Joicey. Mangadone proper ends at the tram lines; the district beyond is known as Bhononie." Coryndon could see that his shot told. There were yellow patches around Joicey's eyes, and a purple shadow passed across his face, leaving it leaden.
Coryndon nodded silently; his eyes lit up with interest and all his listlessness vanished as he watched the door. Following Hartley's Bearer, a small, thin boy came into the room, dressed in a white suit, with a tight white pugaree folded round his head. He shrank nervously at every sound, and when he salaamed to Hartley and Coryndon his face worked as though he was going to burst into tears.
Coryndon was weary. No one who has not watched through hours of strain and suspense knows the utter weariness of mind and body that follows upon the long effort of close attention, and he fell upon his bed in a huddled heap and slept for hour after hour, worn out in brain and body.
After the service there would be a choir practice, and Coryndon, having made a mental note of the hour, went back to luncheon with Hartley. The afternoon sunlight was dreaming in the garden, and the drowsy air was full of the scent of flowers. Coryndon had something to do, and he was wise enough to make no settled plan as to how he would do it, beforehand.
Coryndon nodded his head, and, opening the piano, struck a light chord. After a moment he sat down and played softly, and the air he played came straight from the high rocks that guard the Afghan frontier.
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