about the doctor yesterday, and
you tried to frighten Josiah into getting you whisky--you lied to him."

Josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told the
clergyman of the threat. Lamb was quick to understand the situation, and
the cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceived
the rector.

"Who says I lied? Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's just like a
dream--I don't feel nowise accountable. If--I--abused Josiah, I'm sorry.
He did shave me. Let me think--what was it scared Josiah?" He had the
slight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory.

"It is hardly worth while, Peter, to go into the matter if you don't
recall what you said." He realized that the defence was perfect. Its too
ready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth.

Lamb was now enjoying the game. "Was Josiah really here, sir? But, of
course, he was, for he shaved me. I do remember that. Won't you sit down,
sir?"

"No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."

"Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a week
or so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"

This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said had
better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious
trouble with Mr. Penhallow."

"Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but how
could I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"

"Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done my
duty in warning you."

"I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and
uplift of lids over watchful eyes--"Oh, I want you to know how much I
thank you, sir, for all your kind--"

"You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.

Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game
were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he
fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "Damn that black cuss," he
muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."

At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from
his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually
minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of
profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he
smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself
to task, reflecting that he should have been m