walked to Monty's side, and stood looking down upon him.
“I think,” he said gently, “that we have met before.”
“A mistake,” Monty declared. “Never saw you in my life. Just off to sleep.”
But Francis had seen the trembling of the man's lips, and his nervously shaking hands.
“There is nothing to fear,” he said; “I wanted to speak to you as a friend.”
“Don't know you; don't want to speak to you,” Monty declared.
Francis stooped down and whispered a name in the ear of the sullen man. Trent leaned forward, but he could not hear it—only he too saw the shudder and caught the little cry which broke from the white lips of his partner.
Monty sat up, white, despairing, with strained, set face and bloodshot eyes.
“Look here,” he said, “I may be what you say, and I may not. It's no business of yours. Do you hear? Now be off and leave me alone! Such as I am, I am. I won't be interfered with. But—” Monty's voice became a shriek.
“Leave me alone!” he cried. “I have no name I tell you, no past, no future. Let me alone, or by Heaven I'll shoot you!”
Francis shrugged his shoulders, and turned away with a sigh.
“A word with you outside,” he said to Trent—and Trent followed him out into the night. The moon was paling—in the east there was a faint shimmer of dawn. A breeze was rustling in the trees. The two men stood face to face.
“Look here, sir,” Francis said, “I notice that this concession of yours is granted to you and your partner jointly whilst alive and to the survivor, in case of the death of either of you.”
“What then?” Trent asked fiercely.
“This! It's a beastly unfair arrangement, but I suppose it's too late to upset it. Your partner is half sodden with drink now. You know what that means in this climate. You've the wit to keep sober enough yourself. You're a strong man, and he is weak.
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