"Monty," he said, "you aren't afraid to come with me?"
Monty looked at him, perplexed and troubled.
"You've nothing to be afraid of," Trent continued. "As to the money
at Mr. Walsh's house, I settled that all up with him before I left
Attra. It belonged to you really, for I'd left more than that for
you."
"There is no one, then," Monty asked in a slow, painful whisper,
"who will put me in prison?"
"I give you my word, Monty," Trent declared, "that there is not a
single soul who has any idea of the sort."
"You see, it isn't that I mind," Monty continued in a low, quivering
voice, "but there's my little girl! My real name might come out,
and I wouldn't have her know what I've been for anything."
"She shall not know," Trent said, "I'll promise you'll be perfectly
safe with me."
Monty rose up weakly. His knees were shaking, and he was in a
pitiful state. He cast a sidelong glance at the brandy bottle by
his side, and his hand stole out towards it. But Trent stopped him
gently but firmly.
"Not now, Monty," he said, "you've had enough of that!"
The man's hand dropped to his side. He looked into Trent's face,
and the years seemed to fade away into a mist.
"You were always a hard man, Scarlett Trent," he said.
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