Atkins, the rector of St. Jude's bungalow companion, was a dry little
man, adhering to simple facts, and neither a sensationalist nor an
alarmist; therefore his words had weight. He was a small man, always
dressed in clothes a little too small, with his whole mind given up to
the subject of his profession; besides which he was religious, a
non-smoker, a teetotaller, and particular upon these points.

Being but little in the habit of going into Mangadone society, he seldom
met Hartley except at the Club, and it was there that he ran him into a
corner and asked for a word or two in private. Hartley took him out into
the dim green space where basket chairs were set at intervals, and
drawing two well away from the others, sat down to listen.

Sweet scents were wafted up on the evening air, and drowsy, dark clouds
followed the moonlike heavy wisps of black cotton-wool, drowning the
light from time to time and then clearing off again; and all over the
grass, glimmering groups of men in white clothes and women in trailing
skirts filled the air with an indistinct murmur of sound.

"It is understood at the outset," began Atkins, clearing his throat with
a crowing sound, "that what I have to say is said strictly in a private
and confidential sense. I only say it because I am driven to do so."

Hartley's basket chair squeaked as he moved, but he said nothing, and
Atkins dropped his voice into an intimate tone and went on:

"You came to see Heath one day lately, and I told you he was ill. Well,
so he was, but there are illnesses of the mind as well as of the body,
and Heath was mind-sick. I am a light sleeper, Hartley. I wake at a