When Hartley hung up the receiver he took his hat and waterproof and
went out into the warm, damp dusk of the evening. There was something
that he did not like about the weather. It was heavy, oppressive,
stifling, and though there was air in plenty, it was the stale air of a
day that seemed never to have got out of bed, but to have lain in a
close room behind the shut windows of Heaven.

He remembered the boy Absalom well, and could recall his dark, eager
face, bulging eyes and protuberant under-lip, and the idea of his having
been decoyed off unto some place of horror haunted him. It was still on
his mind when he walked into the Club veranda and joined a group of men
in the bar. Joicey, the banker, was with them, silent, morose, and moody
according to his wont, taking no particular notice of anything or
anybody. Fitzgibbon, a young Irish barrister-at-law, was talking, and
laughing and doing his best to keep the company amused, but he could get
no response out of Joicey. Hartley was received with acclamations suited
to his general reputation for popularity, and he stood talking for a
little, glad to shake off his feeling of depression. When he saw Mr.
Heath come in and go up the staircase to an upstairs room, he followed
him with his eyes and decided to take the opportunity to speak to him.

"What's the matter, Joicey?" he asked, speaking to the banker. "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