"You know very well," Trent said, "what I have come about. Of course
you'll pretend you don't, so to save time I'll tell you. What have
you done with Monty?"
Da Souza spread outwards the palms of his hands. He spoke with
well-affected impatience.
"Monty! always Monty! What do I want with him? It is you who
should look after him, not I."
Trent turned quietly round and locked the door. Da Souza would have
called out, but a paroxysm of fear had seized him. His fat, white
face was pallid, and his knees were shaking. Trent's hand fell upon
his shoulder, and Da Souza felt as though the claws of a trap had
gripped him.
"If you call out I'll throttle you," Trent said. "Now listen.
Francis is in England and, unless Monty is produced, will tell the
whole story. I shall do the best I can for all of us, but I'm not
going to have Monty done to death. Come, let's have the truth."
Da Souza was grey now with a fear greater even than a physical one.
He had been so near wealth. Was he to lose everything?
"Mr. Trent," he whispered, "my dear friend, have reason. Monty, I
tell you, is only half alive, he hangs on, but it is a mere thread
of life. Leave it all to me! To-morrow he shall be dead! - oh,
quite naturally. There shall be no risk! Trent, Trent!"
His cry ended in a gurgle, for Trent's hand was on his throat.
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