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 crouched as though to spring.  As quick as the gleam of a viper’s tongue, Leighton’s long arms shot out.  Straight for the man’s throat went his hands.  They closed, the long, white fingers around a swarthy neck, thumbs doubled in, their knuckles sinking into the throat.  Lewis felt as though it were his own eyes that started from their sockets.  With a scream, he turned and ran.

He cast himself beneath the shelter of the first low-hanging orange-tree.  He saw the Reverend Orme stalk by, bearing Shenton in his arms.  For the first time in his life Lewis heard the sobs of a grown man, and instinctively knew himself the possessor of a secret thing—­a thing that must never be told.

At the house, alarmed by Natalie’s incoherent, excited chatter and Lalia’s stubborn silence, Mrs. Leighton waited in suspense.  Leighton entered with his burden and laid it down.  Then he turned.  She saw his face.

“Orme!” she cried, “Orme!” and started toward him, groping as though she had been blinded.

“Touch me not, Ann,” spoke Leighton, with a strange calmness.  “Thank God! the mark of Cain is on my brow.”

CHAPTER VI

That very night Leighton sought out his friend, the chief of police.  He told him his story from the first creeping fear for his boy to the moment of terrible vengeance.

“So you killed him, eh?” said the chief, tossing his cigarette from him and thoughtfully lighting another.  “Too bad.  You ought to have come to me first, my friend, turned him over to us for a beating.  It would have come to the same thing in the end and saved you a world of trouble.  But what’s done, is done.  Now we must think.  What do you suggest?”

Amazement dawned in Leighton’s haggard face.

“What do I suggest?” he answered.  “What does the law suggest, sir?  Are there no courts and prison-bars In this country for—­for——­”

“There, there,” interrupted the chief.  “As you say, there are courts, of course, gaols, too; but our accommodations for criminals are not suitable for gentlemen.”