looked at each with sickly disappointment.
“How many?” Trent asked, holding out the pack. Monty hesitated, half made up his mind to throw away three cards, then put one upon the table. Finally, with a little whine, he laid three down with trembling fingers and snatched at the three which Trent handed him. His face lit up, a scarlet flush burned in his cheek. It was evident that the draw had improved his hand.
Trent took his own cards up, looked at them nonchalantly, and helped himself to one card. Monty could restrain himself no longer. He threw his hand upon the ground.
“Three's,” he cried in fierce triumph, “three of a kind—nines!”
Trent laid his own cards calmly down.
“A full hand,” he said, “kings up.”
Monty gave a little gasp and then a moan. His eyes were fixed with a fascinating glare upon those five cards which Trent had so calmly laid down. Trent took up the photograph, thrust it carefully into his pocket without looking at it, and rose to his feet.
“Look here, Monty,” he said, “you shall have the brandy; you've no right to it, and you're best without it by long chalks. But there, you shall have your own way.”
Monty rose to his feet and balanced himself against the post.
“Never mind—about the brandy,” he faltered. “Give me back the photograph.”
Trent shrugged his shoulders. “Why?” he asked coolly. “Full hand beats three, don't it? It was my win and my stake.”
“Then—then take that!” But the blow never touched Trent. He thrust out his hand and held his assailant away at arm's length.
Monty burst into tears.
“You don't want it,” he moaned; “what's my little girl to you? You never saw her, and you never will see her in your life.”
“She is nothing to me of course,” Trent answered. “A moment or so ago her picture was worth less to you than a quarter of a bottle of brandy.”
“I was mad,”
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