"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.
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