joke of the governor's--very
likely a ruse to get rid of guests who had certainly been behaving
as though the Lodge was their permanent home. There was a chorus of
thanksgiving. Groves, the butler, who read the money articles in the
Standard every morning with solemn interest and who was suspected of
investments, announced that from what he could make out the governor
must have landed a tidy little lump yesterday. Whereupon the cook set to
work to prepare a breakfast worthy of the occasion.

Trent had awakened with a keen sense of anticipated pleasure. A new
and delightful interest had entered into his life. It is true that,
at times, it needed all his strength of mind to keep his thoughts from
wandering back into that unprofitable and most distasteful past--in the
middle of the night even, he had woke up suddenly with an old man's
cry in his ears--or was it the whispering of the night-wind in the tall
elms? But he was not of an imaginative nature. He felt himself strong
enough to set his heel wholly upon all those memories. If he had not
erred on the side of generosity, he had at least played the game fairly.
Monty, if he had lived, could only have been a disappointment and a
humiliation. The picture was hers--of that he had no doubt! Even then
he was not sure that Monty was her father. In any case she would never
know. He recognised no obligation on his part to broach the subject. The
man had done his best to cut himself altogether adrift from his former
life. His reasons doubtless had been sufficient. It was not necessary
to pry into them--it might even be unkindness. The picture, which no man
save himself had ever seen, was the only possible link between the past
and the present--between Scarlett Trent and his drunken old partner,
starved and fever-stricken, making their desperate effort for wealth in
unknown Africa, and the millionaire of to-day. The picture remained his
dearest possession--but, save his own, no other eyes had ever beheld it.

He dressed with more care than usual, and much less satisfaction. He was
a man who rather prided himself upon neglecting his appearance, and, so
far as the cut and pattern of his clothes went, he usually suggested
the artisan out for a holiday. To-day for the first time he regarded his
toilet with critical and disparaging eyes. He found the pattern of his
tweed suit too large, and the colour too pronounced, his collars were
old-fashioned and his ties hideous. It was altogeth