"It might be well for you to be more clear," he said, after a long
pause.

"Did you go down Paradise Street just after sunset?"

"I may have done so. I have several parishioners along the river bank."

"Why the devil is he talking like this and looking like this?" Hartley
asked himself, impatiently.

"I'm not a cross-examining counsel," he said, with some sharpness. "As
I told you before, Heath, it is only a very small matter."

The Rev. Francis Heath gripped the back of his chair and a slight flush
mounted to his face.

"I resent your questions, Mr. Hartley. What I did or did not do on the
evening of July the twenty-ninth can in no way affect you. I entirely
refuse to be made to answer anything. You have no right to ask me, and I
have no intention of replying."

Hartley put his hand out in dismay.

"Really, Heath, your attitude is quite absurd. I have already told one
man to-day that he was going mad; are you dreaming, man? I only want you
to help me, and you talk as if I had accused you of something. There is
nothing criminal in being seen in Paradise Street after sundown."

Mr. Heath stood holding by the back of his chair, looking over Hartley's
head, his dark eyes burning and his face set.