"You're as good as a parson, ain't you, partner? But you've always took the virtuous line, ever since we've been together. Why, the first time I set eyes on you you preached to me; and now you're at it again! I never did see such a chap for sermons."
Gray's face grew scarlet.
"You can't think worse of me than I do of myself," he returned; "but I mean what I say about the money, Lumley,—I mean every word of that."
"Well, you're master, I s'pose," the other returned with an odd look that Gray remembered afterwards. "But no tricks, mind; no going in for the reward when my back's turned, mate; though, p'r'aps, you'll not get the chance."
"I think I've proved to you whether or not you can trust me now," said Gray, with just a touch of the old superiority in his tone.
Lumley gave a short laugh.
"Yes, you'd best stick to the virtuous line, partner. You're not cut out for any other; you're too soft-hearted and afraid. P'r'aps you thought my ghost would haunt you unless you came back—but I don't believe in ghosts, mate."
Gray made some answer, he hardly knew what, and presently he got up and moved away.
A shiver went over him once or twice as he stood talking to his horse, who had come up to him as he left Lumley. He had involuntarily recalled Lumley's mocking, incredulous look when he had tried to speak of the change his sufferings had wrought in him.
Next morning Lumley complained that his foot was worse than ever, and that it would be impossible for him to mount the horse that day. Gray did his best to persuade him at least to try, but with no effect. And Lumley positively declined to let Gray ride on to the station.