even then. I am
going to tell you something now, Miss Wendermott, which I've often
wanted to--that is, if you're interested enough to care to hear it!"

All the time she was asking herself how much he knew. She motioned him
to proceed.

"Monty had few things left in the world worth possessing, but there was
one which he had never parted with, which he carried with him always.
It was the picture of his little girl, as she had been when his trouble
happened."

He stooped a little as though to see over the white rails, but she was
too adroit. Her face remained hidden from him by that little cloud of
white lace.

"It is an odd thing about that picture," he went on slowly, "but he
showed it to me once or twice, and I too got very fond of it! It was
just a little girl's face, very bright and very winsome, and over there
we were lonely, and it got to mean a good deal to both of us. And one
night Monty would gamble--it was one of his faults, poor chap--and he
had nothing left but his picture, and I played him for it--and won!"

"Brute!" she murmured in an odd, choked tone.

"Sounds so, doesn't it? But I wanted that picture. Afterwards came our
terrible journey back to the Coast, when I carried the poor old chap
on my back day by day, and stood over him at night potting those black
beasts when they crept up too close--for they were on our track all the
time. I wouldn't tell you the whole story of those days, Miss Wendermott
for it would keep you awake at night; but I've a fancy for telling you
this. I'd like you to believe it, for it's gospel truth. I didn't leave
him until I felt absolutely and actually certain that he couldn't live
an hour. He was passing into unconsciousness, and a crowd of those
natives were close upon our heels. So I left him and took the picture
with me--and I think since then that it has meant almost as much to me
as ever it had been to him."

"That," she remarked, "sounds a little far-fetched--not to say
impossible."

"Some day," he answered boldly, "I shall speak to you of this again, and
I shall try to convince you that it is truth!"

He could not see her face, but he knew very well in some occult manner
that she had parted with some at least of her usual composure. As a
matter of fact she was nervous and ill-at-ease.

"You have not yet told me," she said abruptly, "what you imagine can be
this girl's reasons for remaining unknown."

"I can only guess them," he said gravely; "I can only s