Heath's bungalow companion, and he pulled up short.

"I've been trying to call on the Padré," he said, carelessly, "but he
was out."

"Out," said Atkins, in a tone of surprise. "Why, that is odd. He told me
he was due at a meeting at half-past five, and that he wasn't going out
until then. I suppose he changed his mind."

"It looks like it," said Hartley, dryly.

"He hasn't been well these last few days," went on Atkins, quickly,
"said he felt the weather, and he certainly seems ill. I don't believe
the poor devil sleeps at all. Whenever I wake, I can see his light in
the passage."

"That is bad," Hartley's voice grew sympathetic. "Has he been long like
this?"

"Not long," said Atkins, who was constitutionally accurate. "I think it
began about the night after the thunder-storm, but I can't say for
certain."

"Well, I won't keep you." Hartley touched the pony's quarters with his
whip. "I'm sorry I missed Heath, as I wanted to see him about something
rather important."

"I'll tell him," said Atkins, cheerfully, "and probably he'll look you
up at your own house."