"Hold on!" cried Lewis, his eyes flaming. "I'm no drunkard--no cowardly
Manoel."

The Reverend Orme stopped in his stride. A ghastly pallor came over his
face.

"Manoel!" he whispered. "What do _you_ know about Manoel?"

Lewis's heart sank low within him. His unbroken silence of years had
been instinctive. Now, when it was too late, he suddenly realized that
it had been the thread that held him to Nadir. He had broken it. Never
more could he and the Reverend Orme sleep beneath the same roof, eat at
the same table. He saw it in the Reverend Orme's face.

Leighton had staggered back to his chair and sat staring vacantly at the
floor. Lewis looked at his head, streaked with white, at his brow,
terribly lined, and at his vacant, staring eyes. He felt a sudden great
pity for his foster-father, but pity had come too late.

"Sir," he said, "I am going away. I shall need some money." He felt no
shame at asking for money. For seven years he had tended Leighton's
goats--tended them so well that in seven years they had increased
sevenfold.

Leighton unlocked the drawer of his table and took out a small roll of
bank-notes. He tossed it on the table. Lewis picked out two notes from
the roll, and pushed the rest back. He started toward the door. Half-way
he paused and turned to his foster-father.