upon Trent's cheek. It was the usual thing - the disappointment
of the baffled drunkard - a little more terrible in his case perhaps
because of the remnants of refinement still to be traced in his
well-shaped features. His weak eyes for once were eloquent, but
with the eloquence of cupidity and unwholesome craving, his lean
cheeks twitched and his hands shook.

"Just a drop, Trent!" he pleaded. "I'm not feeling well, indeed
I'm not! The odours here are so foul. A liqueur-glassful will do
me all the good in the world."

"You won't get it, Monty, so it's no use whining," Trent said
bluntly. "I've given way to you too much already. Buck up, man!
We're on the threshold of fortune and we need all our wits about us."

"Of fortune - fortune!" Monty's head dropped upon his chest, his
nostrils dilated, he seemed to fall into a state of stupor. Trent
watched him half curiously, half contemptuously.

"You're terribly keen on money-making for an old 'un," he remarked,
after a somewhat lengthy pause. "What do you want to do with it?"

"To do with it!" The old man raised his head. "To do with it!"
The gleam of reawakened desire lit up his face. He sat for a
moment thinking. Then he laughed softly.

"I will tell you, Master Scarlett Trent," he said, "I will tell you
why I crave for wealth. You are a young and an ignorant man.
Amongst other things you do not know what money will buy. You have
your coarse pleasures I do not doubt, which seem sweet to you!