Trent noticed that his hands were shaking pitifully and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Try and think, Monty," he went on, drawing a step nearer to him.

"Don't you remember what a beastly time we had up in the bush--how they kept us day after day in that villainous hut because it was a fetish week, and how after we had got the concessions those confounded niggers followed us! They meant our lives, Monty, and I don't know how you escaped! Come! make an effort and pull yourself together.

We're rich men now, both of us.

You must come back to England and help me spend a bit." Monty had recovered a little his power of speech.

He leaned over his spade and smiled benignly at his visitor.
"There was a Trentham in the Guards," he said slowly, "the Honourable George Trentham, you know, one of poor Abercrombie's sons, but I thought he was dead.