Coryndon's eyes fixed on him, like gripping hands, and he leaned a little over the table.
"You can tell me how and when you got Rydal out of the country."
For a moment, it seemed to Heath that the whole room rocked, and that blackness descended upon him in waves, blotting out the face of the man who asked the question, destroying his identity, and leaving him only the knowledge that the secret that he had guarded with all the strength of his soul was known, inexplicably, to Hartley's friend. He tried to frame a reply, but his words faltered through dry lips, and his face was white and set.
"Why should you say that I helped Rydal?"
"Because," Coryndon's answer came quickly, "you told me so yourself last night at dinner."
He heard Coryndon speak again, very slowly, so that every word came clear into the confusion of his throbbing brain.
"I knew from Hartley that you were in Paradise Street on the evening of the twenty-ninth of July, and that you saw and spoke to Absalom. I am concerned in the case of finding that boy or his murderer, and anything you can tell me may be of help to me in putting my facts together. I had to come to your confidence by a direct question. Will you pardon me when you consider my motive? I am not concerned with Rydal: my case is with Absalom."
He looked sympathetically at the worn, drawn face across the table, that was white and sick with recent fear.
"Tell me the events just as they came," he said gently. "You may be able to cast light on the matter."
Heath looked up, and his eyes expressed his silent acceptance of Coryndon's honesty of purpose.