“My story,” he said coolly, “has been told behind your back. It is only fair to repeat it to your face. I have told Miss Wendermott this--that I met you first in the village of Bekwando with a concession in your hand made out to you and her father jointly, with the curious proviso that in the event of the death of one the other was his heir. I pointed out to Miss Wendermott that you were in the prime of life and in magnificent condition, while her father was already on the threshold of the grave and drinking himself into a fever in a squalid hut in a village of swamps. I told her that I suspected foul play, that I followed you both and found her father left to the tender mercies of the savages, deserted by you in the bush. I told her that many months afterwards he disappeared, simultaneously with your arrival in the country, that a day or two ago you swore to me you had no idea where he was. That has been my story, Trent, let Miss Wendermott choose between them.” “I am content,” Trent cried fiercely. “Your story is true enough, but it is cunningly linked together. You have done your worst. Choose!” For ever afterwards he was glad of that single look of reproach which seemed to escape her unwittingly as her eyes met his. But she turned away and his heart was like a stone. “You have deceived me, Mr. Trent. I am very sorry, and very disappointed.” “And you,” he cried passionately, “are you yourself so blameless? Were you altogether deceived by your relations, or had you never a suspicion that your father might still be alive? You had my message through Mr. Cuthbert; I met you day by day after you knew that I had been your father's partner, and never once did you give yourself away! Were you tarred with the same brush as those canting snobs who doomed a poor old man to a living death? Doesn't it look like it? What am I to think of you?” “Your judgment, Mr. Trent,” she answered quietly, “is of no importance to me! It does not interest me in any way. But I will tell you this. If I did not disclose myself, it was because I distrusted you. I wanted to know the truth, and I set myself to find it out.” “Your friendship was a lie, then!” he cried, with flashing eyes. “To you I was nothing but a suspected man to be spied upon and betrayed.” She faltered and did not answer him. Outside the nurse was knocking at the door. Trent waved them away with an imperious gesture. “Be off,” he cried, “both of you! You can do your worst! I thank Heaven that I am not of your class, whose men have flints for hearts and whose women can lie like angels.” They left him alone, and Trent, with a groan, plucked from his heart the one strong, sweet hope which had changed his life so wonderfully. Upstairs, Monty was sobbing, with his little girl's arms about him. CHAPTER XLII