"I used to belong to the Guards, - always dined there till Jacques
left. Afterwards the cooking was beastly, and - I can't quite
remember where I went then. You see - I think I must be getting old.
I don't remember things. Between you and me," he sidled a little
closer to Trent, "I think I must have got into a bit of a scrape of
some sort - I feel as though there was a blank somewhere...."
Again he became unintelligible. Trent was silent for several
minutes. He could not understand that strained, anxious look which
crept into Monty's face every time he faced the town. Then he made
his last effort.
"Monty, do you remember this?"
Zealously guarded, yet a little worn at the edges and faded, he
drew the picture from its case and held it before the old man's
blinking eyes. There was a moment of suspense, then a sharp,
breathless cry which ended in a wail.
"Take it away," Monty moaned. "I lost it long ago. I don't want
to see it! I don't want to think."
"I have come," Trent said, with an unaccustomed gentleness in his
tone, "to make you think. I want you to remember that that is a
picture of your daughter. You are rich now and there is no reason
why you should not come back to her. Don't you understand, Monty?"
It was a grey, white face, shrivelled and pinched, weak eyes without
depth, a vapid smile in which there was no meaning.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202