A Millionaire of Yesterday. E. Phillips Oppenheim

on to his feet, and walked aimlessly about the hut. Once or twice as he passed the place where the bottle rested, he hesitated; at last he paused, his eyes lit up, he stretched out his hand stealthily. But before he could possess himself of it Trent's hand was upon his collar.

      “You poor fool!” he said; “leave it alone can't you? You want to poison yourself I know. Well, you can do as you jolly well like when you are out of this—not before.”

      Monty's eyes flashed evil fires, but his tone remained persuasive. “Trent,” he said, “be reasonable. Look at me! I ask you now whether I am not better for that last drop. I tell you that it is food and wine to me. I need it to brace me up for to-morrow. Now listen! Name your own stake! Set it up against that single glass! I am not a mean man, Trent. Shall we say one hundred and fifty?”

      Trent looked at him half scornfully, half deprecatingly.

      “You are only wasting your breath, Monty,” he said. “I couldn't touch money won in such a way, and I want to get you out of this alive. There's fever in the air all around us, and if either of us got a touch of it that drop of brandy might stand between us and death. Don't worry me like a spoilt child. Roll yourself up and get to sleep! I'll keep watch.”

      “I will be reasonable,” Monty whined. “I will go to sleep, my friend, and worry you no more when I have had just one sip of that brandy! It is the finest medicine in the world for me! It will keep the fever off. You do not want money you say! Come, is there anything in this world which I possess, or may possess, which you will set against that three inches of brown liquid?”

      Trent was on the point of an angry negative. Suddenly he stopped—hesitated—and said nothing. Monty's face lit up with sudden hope.

      “Come,” he cried, “there is something I see! You're the right sort, Trent. Don't be afraid to speak out. It's yours, man, if you win it. Speak up!”

      “I will stake that brandy,” Trent answered, “against the picture you let fall from your pocket an hour ago.”

CHAPTER III

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      For a moment Monty stood as though dazed. Then the excitement which had shone in his face slowly subsided. He stood quite silent, muttering softly to himself, his eyes fixed upon Trent.

      “Her picture! My little girl's picture! Trent, you're joking, you're mad!”

      “Am I?” Trent answered nonchalantly. “Perhaps so! Anyhow those are my terms! You can play or not as you like! I don't care.”

      A red spot burned in Monty's cheeks, and a sudden passion shook him. He threw himself upon Trent and would have struck him but that he was as a child in the younger man's grasp. Trent held him at a distance easily and without effort.

      “There's nothing for you to make a fuss about,” he said gruffly. “I answered a plain question, that's all. I don't want to play at all. I should most likely lose, and you're much better without the brandy.”

      Monty was foaming with passion and baffled desire. “You beast!” he cried, “you low, ill-bred cur! How dared you look at her picture! How dare you make me such an offer! Let me go, I say! Let me go!”

      But Trent did not immediately relax his grasp. It was evidently not safe to let him go. His fit of anger bordered upon hysterics. Presently he grew calmer but more maudlin. Trent at last released him, and, thrusting the bottle of brandy into his coat-pocket, returned to his game of Patience. Monty lay on the ground watching him with red, shifty eyes.

      “Trent,” he whimpered. But Trent did not answer him.

      “Trent, you needn't have been so beastly rough. My arm is black and blue and I am sore all over.”

      But Trent remained silent. Monty crept a little nearer. He was beginning to feel a very injured person.

      “Trent,” he 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.

      “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