a little shame at the care which had prompted him to wrap it so tenderly in the oilskin sheet. Monty shaded his face with his hands, and the picture stole up to his lips. Trent stood a little apart and hated himself for this last piece of inhumanity. He pretended to be listening for the stealthy approach of their enemies. In reality he was struggling with the feeling which prompted him to leave this picture with the dying man.
“I suppose you'd best have it,” he said sullenly at last.
But Monty shook his head feebly and held out the picture.
Trent took it with an odd sense of shame which puzzled him. He was not often subject to anything of the sort.
“It belongs to you, Trent. I lost it on the square, and it's the only social law I've never broken—to pay my gambling debts. There's one word more!”
“Yes.”
“It's about that clause in our agreement. I never thought it was quite fair, you know, Trent!”
“Which clause?”
“The clause which—at my death—makes you sole owner of the whole concession. You see—the odds were scarcely even, were they? It wasn't likely anything would happen to you!”
“I planned the thing,” Trent said, “and I saw it through! You did nothing but find a bit of brass. It was only square that the odds should be in my favour. Besides, you agreed. You signed the thing.”
“But I wasn't quite well at the time,” Monty faltered. “I didn't quite understand. No, Trent, it's not quite fair. I did a bit of the work at least, and I'm paying for it with my life!”
“What's it matter to you now?” Trent said, with unintentional brutality. “You can't take it with you.”
Monty raised himself a little. His eyes, lit with feverish fire, were fastened upon the other man.
“There's my little girl!” he said hoarsely. “I'd like to leave her something. If the thing turns out big, Trent, you can spare a small share. There's a letter here! It's to my lawyers.
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