half and jammed the tobacco pouch. Randal freed it with his foot. An envelope atop of all curled open, baring a quarter-plate photograph, disgracefully toned by an amateur. Randal dived after it with an oath, and the hair was singed from his hand and arm in the saving of it.
“Chuck that back!” said Ormond.
Randal cradled the indistinct little picture in both hands. There was just the dainty pose of the head and the sweet droop of the lip to show.
“She need never know—just this one thing, Ormond.”
“No! You’ve honour enough to carry you through this business properly, haven’t you? And you have no right to that of all things, Randal. You come of the breed that dies in its boots, and if anyone found that on you———”
“I have a right to it! She gave it to me! And I have a right to her—to her! She gave herself to me long ago———”
Ormond secured the photograph with a dexterous twist, and spun it into the flame.
“You’re talking piffle,” he said, “and worse. Stand up to it, can’t you? And remember that she is to be married in a week, while you”—Ormond grew suddenly angry—“you’ll go down into the gutter and lie there, I suppose! You’ve just about enough sense! Oh, Randal,
