"
"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.
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