Monty gave a little gasp and then a moan. His eyes were fixed with a fascinating glare upon those five cards which Trent had so calmly laid down. Trent took up the photograph, thrust it carefully into his pocket without looking at it, and rose to his feet. “Look here, Monty,” he said, “you shall have the brandy; you've no right to it, and you're best without it by long chalks. But there, you shall have your own way.” Monty rose to his feet and balanced himself against the post. “Never mind--about the brandy,” he faltered. “Give me back the photograph.” Trent shrugged his shoulders. “Why?” he asked coolly. “Full hand beats three, don't it? It was my win and my stake.” “Then--then take that!” But the blow never touched Trent. He thrust out his hand and held his assailant away at arm's length. Monty burst into tears. “You don't want it,” he moaned; “what's my little girl to you? You never saw her, and you never will see her in your life.” “She is nothing to me of course,” Trent answered. “A moment or so ago her picture was worth less to you than a quarter of a bottle of brandy.” “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. You'll never do it if you muddle yourself up with that stuff. Pull yourself together, old 'un. Chuck the drink till we've seen this thing through at any rate!”