A Millionaire of Yesterday. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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 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,” Monty moaned. “She was my own little daughter, God help her!”

      “I never heard you speak of her before,” Trent remarked.

      There was a moment's silence. Then Monty crept out between the posts into the soft darkness, and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.

      “I have never told you about her,” he said, “because she is not the sort of woman who is spoken of at all to such men as you. I am no more worthy to be her father than you are to touch the hem of her skirt. There was a time, Trent, many, many years ago, when I was proud to think that she was my daughter, my own flesh and blood. When I began to go down—it was different. Down and down and lower still! Then she ceased to be my daughter! After all it is best. I am not fit to carry her picture. You keep it. Trent—you keep it—and give me the brandy.”

      He staggered up on to his feet and crept back into the hut. His hands were outstretched, claw-like and bony, his eyes were fierce as a wild cat's. But Trent stood between him and the brandy bottle.

      “Look here,” he said, “you shall have the picture back—curse you! But listen. If I were you and had wife, or daughter, or sweetheart like this “—he touched the photograph almost reverently—“why, I'd go through fire and water but I'd keep myself decent; ain't you a silly old fool, now? We've made our piles, you can go back and take her a fortune, give her jewels and pretty dresses, and all the fal-de-lals that women love. You'll never do it if you muddle yourself up with that stuff. Pull yourself together, old 'un. Chuck the drink till we've seen this thing through at any rate!”

      “You don't know my little girl,” Monty muttered. “How should you? She'd care little for money or gewgaws, but she'd break her heart to see her old father—come to this—broken down—worthless—a hopeless, miserable wretch. It's too late. Trent, I'll have just a glass I think. It will do me good. I have been fretting, Trent, you see how pale I am.”

      He staggered towards the bottle. Trent watched him, interfering no longer. With a little chuckle of content he seized upon it and, too fearful of interference from Trent to wait for a glass, raised it to his lips. There was a gurgling in his throat—a little spasm as he choked, and released his lips for a moment. Then the bottle slid from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and the liquor oozed away in a little brown stream; even Trent dropped his pack of cards and sprang up startled. For bending down under the sloping roof was a European, to all appearance an Englishman, in linen clothes and white hat. It was the man for whom they had waited.

CHAPTER IV

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      Trent moved forward and greeted the newcomer awkwardly. “You're Captain Francis,” he said. “We've been waiting for you.”

      The statement appeared to annoy the Explorer. He looked nervously at the two men and about the hut.

      “I don't know how the devil you got to hear of my coming, or what you want with me,” he answered brusquely. “Are you both English?”

      Trent assented, waving his hand towards his companion in introductory fashion.

      “That's my pal, Monty,” he said. “We're both English right enough.”

      Monty raised a flushed face and gazed with bloodshot eyes at the man who was surveying him so calmly. Then he gave a little gurgling cry and turned away. Captain Francis started and moved a step towards him. There was a puzzled look in his face—as though he were making an effort to recall something familiar.

      “What is the matter with him?” he asked Trent.

      “Drink!”

      “Then why the devil don't you see that he doesn't get too much?” the newcomer said sharply. “Don't you know what it means in this climate? Why, he's on the high-road to a fever now. Who on this earth is it he reminds me of?”

      Trent laughed shortly.

      “There's never a man in Buckomari—no, nor in all Africa—could keep Monty from the drink,” he said. “Live with him for a month and try it. It wouldn't suit you—I don't think.”

      He glanced disdainfully at the smooth face and careful dress of their visitor, who bore the inspection with a kindly return of contempt.

      “I've no desire to try,” he said; “but he reminds me very strongly of some one I knew in England. What do you call him—Monty?”

      Trent nodded.

      “Never heard any other name,” he said.

      “Have you ever heard him speak of England?” Francis asked.

      Trent hesitated. What was this newcomer to him that he should give away his pal? Less than nothing! He hated the fellow already, with a rough, sensitive man's contempt of a bearing and manners far above his own.

      “Never. He don't talk.”

      Captain Francis moved a step towards the huddled-up figure breathing heavily upon the floor, but Trent, leaning over, stopped him.

      “Let him be,” he said gruffly. “I know enough of him to be sure that he needs no one prying and ferreting into his affairs. Besides, it isn't safe for us to be dawdling about here. How many soldiers have you brought with you?”

      “Two hundred,” Captain Francis answered shortly.

      Trent whistled.