“There is no one, then,” Monty asked in a slow, painful whisper, “who will put me in prison?”
“I give you my word, Monty,” Trent declared, “that there is not a single soul who has any idea of the sort.”
“You see, it isn't that I mind,” Monty continued in a low, quivering voice, “but there's my little girl! My real name might come out, and I wouldn't have her know what I've been for anything.”
“She shall not know,” Trent said, “I'll promise you'll be perfectly safe with me.”
Monty rose up weakly. His knees were shaking, and he was in a pitiful state. He cast a sidelong glance at the brandy bottle by his side, and his hand stole out towards it. But Trent stopped him gently but firmly.
“Not now, Monty,” he said, “you've had enough of that!”
The man's hand dropped to his side. He looked into Trent's face, and the years seemed to fade away into a mist.
“You were always a hard man, Scarlett Trent,” he said. “You were always hard on me!”
“Maybe so,” Trent answered, “yet you'd have died in D.T. before now but for me! I kept you from it as far as I could. I'm going to keep you from it now!”
Monty turned a woebegone face around the little room.