Just as swiftly flashed through his brain two thoughts: the first, the
axiom, _whenever and wherever you find a leper, look for the other
leper_; the second, the desired Irish terrier, who was owned by Daughtry,
with whom Kwaque had been long associated. And here all swiftness of eye-
flashing ceased on the part of Walter Merritt Emory. He did not know how
much, if anything, the steward knew about leprosy, and he did not care to
arouse any suspicions. Casually drawing his watch to see the time, he
turned and addressed Daughtry.

"I should say his blood is out of order. He's run down. He's not used
to the recent life he's been living, nor to the food. To make certain, I
shall examine for cancer and tumour, although there's little chance of
anything like that."

And as he talked, with just a waver for a moment, his gaze lifted above
Daughtry's eyes to the area of forehead just above and between the eyes.
It was sufficient. His "leper-eye" had seen the "lion" mark of the
leper.

"You're run down yourself," he continued smoothly. "You're not up to
snuff, I'll wager. Eh?"

"Can't say that I am," Daughtry agreed. "I guess I got to get back to
the sea an' the tropics and warm the rheumatics outa me."

"Where?" queried Doctor Emory, almost absently, so well did he feign it,
as if apparently on the verge of returning to a closer examination, of
Kwaque's swelling.

Daughtry extended his left hand, with a little wiggle of the little
finger advertising the seat of the affliction. Walter Merritt Emory saw,
with seeming careless look out from under careless-drooping eyelids, the
little finger slightly swollen, slightly twisted, with a smooth, almost
shiny, silkiness of skin-texture. Again, in the course of turning to
look at Kwaque, his eyes rested an instant on the lion-lines of
Daughtry's brow.

"Rheumatism is still the great mystery," Doctor Emory said, returning to
Daughtry as if deflected by the thought. "It's almost individual, there
are so many varieties of it. Each man has a kind of his own. Any
numbness?"

Daughtry laboriously wiggled his little finger.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "It ain't as lively as it used to was."

"Ah," Walter Merritt Emory murmured, with a vastitude of confidence and
assurance. "Please sit down in that chair there. Maybe I won't be able
to cure you, but I promise you I can direct you to the best place to live
for what's the matter with you.--Miss Judson!"

And while t