He was a man of little imaginative force,
yet the white face of a dying man seemed suddenly to have floated
up out of the darkness, to have come to him like a will-o'-the-wisp
from the swamp, and the hollow, lifeless eyes seemed ever to be
seeking his, mournful and eloquent with dull reproach. Trent rose
to his feet with an oath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He
was trembling, and he cursed himself heartily.
"Another fool's hour like this," he muttered, "and the fever will
have me. Come out of the shadows, you white-faced, skulking reptile,
you - bah! what a blithering fool I am! There is no one there!
How could there be any one?"
He listened intently. From afar off came the faint moaning of the
wind in the forest and the night sounds of restless animals. Nearer
there was no one - nothing stirred. He laughed out loud and moved
away to spend his last night in his little wooden home. On the
threshold he paused, and faced once more that black, mysterious line
of forest.
"Well, I've done with you now," he cried, a note of coarse exultation
in his tone. "I've gambled for my life and I've won. To-morrow I'll
begin to spend the stakes."
CHAPTER VII
In a handsomely appointed room of one of the largest hotels in
London a man was sitting at the head of a table strewn with
blotting-paper and writing materials of every description.
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