Shiraz fell silent and looked up from the floor at the face of his
master, who got up and stretched himself.

"Is my bath ready, Shiraz?"

"All is prepared, though the _pani walla_, a worker of iniquity, steals
the wood for his own burning; therefore, the water is not hot, and ill
is done to the good name of Hartley Sahib's house."

When he was dressed he strolled into the drawing-room, and sat down at
the piano, playing softly until Hartley came in.

"Shall you be away long, do you suppose?" he asked, looking with
interest at Coryndon's smooth, black head.

"I may be, but it is impossible to tell. If I want you, I will send a
message by Shiraz."

The dinner passed off without incident, and not once did Coryndon open
the secret door of his mind, to add to the strange store of facts he had
gathered there. He wanted nothing from Atkins, who knew less of the Rev.
Francis Heath than he did himself, and he had to sustain his rôle of
ignorance of the country. The two men stayed late, and it seemed to
Coryndon that when men talk they do more than talk, they tell many
things unconsciously.

Perhaps, if people realized, as Coryndon realized, the value of
restrained speech, we should know less of our neighbours' follies and
weaknesses than we do. There was a noticeable absence of interest in