overdrawn."

"Dine with me on Saturday," suggested Hartley, "I've seen very little of
you just lately."

Joicey looked up and nodded.

"I'll come," he said, laconically, and Hartley, finishing his drink,
went up the staircase.

The reading-room of the Club was usually empty at that hour, and the
great tables littered with papers, free to any studious reader. When
Hartley came in, the Rev. Francis Heath had the place entirely to
himself, and was sitting with a copy of the _Saturday Review_ in his
hands. He did not hear Hartley come in, and he started as his name was
spoken, and putting down the _Review_, looked at the Head of the Police
with questioning eyes.

"I've come to talk over something with you, Heath," Hartley began,
drawing a chair close to the table. "Can you remember anything at all of
what you were doing on the evening of July the twenty-ninth?"

The Rev. Francis Heath dropped his paper, and stooped to pick it up;
certainly he found the evening hot, for his face ran with trickles of
perspiration.

"July the twenty-ninth?"

"Yes, that's the date. I am particularly anxious to know if you remember
it."