Then his eyes narrowed.

"What the devil you doing here?" he demanded.

"Sit down," suggested Monte. "I want to have a little talk with you."

It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton to obey.

Monte drew up a chair opposite him.

"Now," he said quietly, "tell me just what it is you want of Miss Stockton."

"What business is that of yours?" demanded Hamilton nervously.

Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start was the question Marjory had antic.i.p.ated--the question that might have caused him some embarra.s.sment had it not been so adequately provided for in the last few moments. As it was, he became conscious of a little glow of satisfaction which moderated his feelings toward young Hamilton considerably. He actually felt a certain amount of sympathy for him.

After all, the little beggar was in bad shape.

But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, why he should make him his confidant. Secure in his position, he felt it was none of Hamilton's business.

"Miss Stockton and I are old friends," he answered.

"Then--she has told you?"

"She gave me to believe you made a good deal of an a.s.s of yourself this morning," nodded Monte.

Hamilton sank back limply in his chair.

"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my G.o.d, I did!"

"All that business of waving a pistol--I did n't think you were that much of a cub, Hamilton."

"She drove me mad. I did n't know what I was doing."

"In just what way do you blame her?" inquired Monte.

"She would n't believe me," exclaimed Hamilton. "I saw it in her eyes.

I could n't make her believe me."

"Believe what?"

Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the wall. He was breathing rapidly, like a man in a fever.

Monte studied him with a curious interest.

"That I love her," gasped Hamilton. "She thought I was lying. I could n't make her believe it, I tell you! She just sat there and smiled--not believing."

"Good Lord!" said Monte. "You don't mean that you really do love her?"

Hamilton sprang with what little strength there was in him.

"d.a.m.n you, Covington--what do you think?" he choked.

Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair.

"Steady," he warned.

Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his eyes burning into Covington's.

"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with--with an honest-to-G.o.d love?"

When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red light in his eyes had turned to white.

"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said.

The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him--that so much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The wonder was that so much was left.

As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster.

He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with a weird fascination.

"Tell me about it," said Covington.

Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his soul.

"Do you believe me?" he demanded.

"Yes," answered Monte; "I think I do."

"Because--did you see a play in New York called 'Peter Grimm'?"

"I remember it," nodded Monte.

"It's been like that--like dying and coming back and trying to make people hear, and not being able to. I made an a.s.s of myself until I met her. I know that. I'm not fit to be in the same room with her. I know that you can say nothing too bad about me--up to the day I met her. I would n't care what people said up to that day--if they'd only believe the rest; if she'd only believe the rest. I think I could stand it even if I knew she--she did not care for me--if only I could make her understand how much she means to me."

Monte looked puzzled.

"Just what does she mean to you?" he asked.

"All that's left in life," answered Hamilton. "All that's left to work for, to live for, to hope for. It's been like that ever since I saw her on the boat. I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and then--everything was changed. There was no place to go, after that, except where she went. I counted the hours at night to the time when the sun came up and I could see her again. I did n't begin to live until then; the rest of the time I was only waiting to live. Every time she came in sight it--it was as if I were resurrected, Covington; as if in the mean while I'd been dead. I thought at first I had a chance, and I planned to come back home with her to do things. I wanted to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance all the while, until she came here--until this morning. Then, when she only smiled--well, I lost my head."

"What was the idea back of the gun?" asked Monte.

Hamilton answered without bravado.

"I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my nerve."

"Good Lord! You would have gone as far as that?"

"Yes," answered Hamilton wearily. "But I'm glad I fell down."