“I am sure to win—Trent is always unlucky at cards—such a little risk, and the brandy—ah!”
He sucked in his lips for a moment with a slight gurgling sound. He looked over his shoulder, and his face grew haggard with longing. His eyes sought Trent's, but Trent was smoking stolidly and looking at the cards spread out before him, as a chess-player at his pieces.
“Such a very small risk,” Monty whispered softly to himself. “I need the brandy too. I cannot sleep without it! Trent!”
Trent made no answer. He did not wish to hear. Already he had repented. He was not a man of keen susceptibility, but he was a trifle ashamed of himself. At that moment he was tempted to draw the cork, and empty the brandy out upon the ground.
“Trent! Do you hear, Trent?”
He could no longer ignore the hoarse, plaintive cry. He looked unwillingly up. Monty was standing over him with white, twitching face and bloodshot eyes.
“Deal the cards,” he muttered simply, and sat down.
Trent hesitated. Monty misunderstood him and slowly drew the photograph from his pocket and laid it face downwards upon the table. Trent bit his lip and frowned.
“Rather a foolish game this,” he said. “Let's call it off, eh? You shall have—well, a thimbleful of the brandy and go to bed. I'll sit up, I'm not tired.”
But Monty swore a very profane and a very ugly oath.
“I'll have the lot,” he muttered. “Every drop; every d—d drop! Ay, and I'll keep the picture. You see, my friend, you see; deal the cards.”
Then Trent, who had more faults than most men, but who hated bad language, looked at the back of the photograph, and, shuddering, hesitated no longer. He shuffled the cards and handed them to Monty.
“Your deal,” he said laconically. “Same as before I suppose?”
Monty nodded, for his tongue was hot and his mouth dry, and speech was not an easy thing. But he dealt the cards, one by one with jealous care, and when he had finished he snatched upon his own, and
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