He spoke of the days of his earlier partnership with Monty,and he admitted the apparent brutality of his treatment of him on more than one occasion.He spoke of Ernestine too -of his strange fancy for the photograph of Monty's little girl,a fancy which later on when he met her became almost immediately the dominant passion of his life.Then he spoke of the coming of Francis,of the awakening of Ernestine's suspicions,and of that desperate moment when he risked everything on her faith in him -and lost.There was little else to tell and afterwards there was a silence.But presently the boy's hand fell upon his arm almost caressingly and he leaned over through the darkness.
"Women are such idiots,"the boy declared,with all the vigour and certainty of long experience."If only Aunt Ernestine had known you half as well as I do,she would have been quite content to have trusted you and to have believed that what you did was for the best.
But I say,Trent,you ought to have waited for it.After she had seen her father and talked with him she must have understood you better.I shall write to her."But Trent shook his head.
"No,"he said sternly,"it is too late now.That moment taught me all I wanted to know.It was her love I wanted,Fred,and -that -no use hoping for that,or she would have trusted me.After all I was half a madman ever to have expected it -a rough,coarse chap like me,with only a smattering of polite ways!It was madness!