Day after day the Reverend
Orme sat waiting in his study and brooding. The dreaded call never came.
He began to distrust his messenger.

Then one stifling afternoon as he sat dozing in his chair a sharp rap on
the study door awakened him with a start.

"Master! Master!" called Lalia's voice.

"Yes, yes," cried Leighton; "come in."

As he rose from his chair Lalia entered. She was breathless with
running.

"Master," she said, "Shenton did quarrel with us. He has gone to
Manoel--to his house."

"Manoel!" cried Leighton, "Manoel!" and strode hatless out into the
glaring sun, across the lawn, and down the loquat avenue.

Lewis, standing with Natalie in the orange-orchard, stared, wondering,
at that hurrying figure. Never had he seen the Reverend Orme walk like
that, hatless, head hanging and swinging from side to side, fists
clenched. Where could he he going? Suddenly he knew. The Reverend Orme
was going to Manoel's house. Shenton was there. Lalia came running to
them. "Hold Natalie!" Lewis cried to her, and sped away to warn Shenton
of danger. He ran with all the speed of his eight years, but from the
first he felt he was too late. The low-hanging branches of the
orange-trees hindered him.

When he burst through the last of them, he saw the Reverend Orme's tall
figure, motionless now, standing at the soiled, small-paned window of
Manoel's house. As he stared, the tall figure crouched and stole out of
sight, around the corner toward the door. Lewis rushed to the window and
looked in. It seemed to him only a day since he had had to drag a log to
stand on to see through this same window.

Shenton was sitting on the bench beside the table, his black, curly head
hanging to one side. Beyond him sat Manoel, leering and jabbering.
Between them was a bottle. Lewis's lips were opening for a cry of
warning when the door was flung wide, and the Reverend Orme stepped into
the room. Lewis could not see Shenton's face, but he saw his slight form
suddenly straighten.

Then he realized with a great relief that the Reverend Orme was not
looking at Shenton; his gaze was fastened on Manoel. Lewis, too, turned
his eyes on Manoel. Cold sweat came out over him as he saw the terror in
Manoel's face. The leer was still there, frozen. Over it and through it,
like a double exposure on a single negative, hung the film of terror.
The Reverend Orme, his hands half outstretched, walked slowly toward
Manoel.

Suddenly the Portuguese crouc