said, “I'm sorry we've had words. Perhaps I said more than I ought to have done. I did not mean to call you names. I apologise.”
“Granted,” Trent said tersely, bending over his game.
“You see, Trent,” he went on, “you're not a family man, are you? If you were, you would understand. I've been down in the mire for years, an utter scoundrel, a poor, weak, broken-down creature. But I've always kept that picture! It's my little girl! She doesn't know I'm alive, never will know, but it's all I have to remind me of her, and I couldn't part with it, could I?”
“You'd be a blackguard if you did,” Trent answered curtly.
Monty's face brightened.
“I was sure,” he declared, “that upon reflection you would think so. I was sure of it. I have always found you very fair, Trent, and very reasonable. Now shall we say two hundred?”
“You seem very anxious for a game,” Trent remarked. “Listen, I will play you for any amount you like, my I O U against your I O U. Are you agreeable?”
Monty shook his head. “I don't want your money, Trent,” he said. “You know that I want that brandy. I will leave it to you to name the stake I am to set up against it.”
“As regards that,” Trent answered shortly, “I've named the stake; I'll not consider any other.”
Monty's face once more grew black with anger.
“You are a beast, Trent—a bully!” he exclaimed passionately; “I'll not part with it!”
“I hope you won't,” Trent answered. “I've told you what I should think of you if you did.”
Monty moved a little nearer to the opening of the hut. He drew the photograph hesitatingly from his pocket, and looked at it by the moonlight. His eyes filled with maudlin tears. He raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“My little girl,” he whispered. “My little daughter.” Trent had re-lit his pipe and started a fresh game of Patience. Monty, standing in the opening, began to mutter to himself.
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