Monte pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead. He could not fully grasp the meaning of a pa.s.sion that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the man had proposed murder--murder and suicide; and all because of this strange love of a woman. He had been driven stark raving mad because of it. He sat there now before him, an odd combination of craven weakness and giant strength because of it. In the face of such a revelation, Covington felt petty; he felt negative.

Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked into the same eyes that had so stirred this man. He had seen nothing there particularly to disturb any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the woman back of them was very beautiful. He had a feeling that, day in and day out for a great many years, they would remain beautiful. They had helped him last night to make the city his own; they had helped him this morning to recover his balance; they helped him now to see straight again.

But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamilton to act like this.

Admitting the man believed in himself,--and Covington believed that much,--he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact remained, even as he himself admitted, that he was not fit to be in the same room with her. It was not possible for a man in a month to cleanse himself of the acc.u.mulated mire of ten years.

Furthermore, that too was beside the point. The girl cared nothing about him. She particularly desired not to care about him or any one else. It was not consistent with her scheme of life. She had told him as much. It was this that had made his own engagement to her possible.

Monte rose from his chair and paced the room a moment. If possible, he wished to settle this matter once for all. On the whole, it was more difficult than he had antic.i.p.ated. When he came down he had intended to dispose of it in five minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced Hamilton.

"It seems to me," he said, "that if a man loved a woman,--really loved her,--then one of the things he would be most anxious about would be to make her happy. Are you with me on that?"

Hamilton raised his head.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then," continued Monte, "it does n't seem to me that you are going about it in just the right way. Waving pistols and throwing fits--"

"I was mad, I tell you," Hamilton broke in.

"Admitting that," resumed Monte, "I should think the best thing you could do would be to go away and sober up."

"Go away?"

"I would. I'd go a long way--to j.a.pan or India."

The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes.

"Did she ask you to tell me that?"

"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you don't go she'll have to."

"What do you mean?"

"Steady, now," warned Monte. "I mean just what I say. She can't stay here and let you camp in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won't stand for that. So--why don't you get out, quietly and without any confusion?"

"That's your own suggestion?" said Hamilton, tottering to his feet.

"Exactly."

"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in h.e.l.l first. It's no business of yours, I say."

"But it is," said Monte.

"Tell me how it is," growled Hamilton.

"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged."

"You lie!" choked Hamilton. "You--"

Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting pain in his shoulder.

As he staggered back he saw a pistol smoking in Hamilton's hand.

Recovering, he threw himself forward on the man and bore him to the floor.

It was no very difficult matter for Monte to wrest the revolver from Hamilton's weak fingers, even with one arm hanging limp; but it was quite a different proposition to quiet Madame Courcy and Marie, who were screaming hysterically in the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was splendid; but even she could do little with madame, who insisted that some one had been murdered, even when it was quite obvious, with both men alive, that this was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had called up the police on the telephone, and at least a dozen gendarmes were now on their way.

The pain in Monte's arm was acute, and it hung from his shoulder as limply as an empty sleeve; but, fortunately, it was not bleeding a great deal,--or at least it was not messing things up,--and he was able, therefore, by always keeping his good arm toward the ladies, to conceal from them this disagreeable consequence of Hamilton's rashness.

Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, leaning against the wall, was staring blankly at the confusion about him.

Monte turned to Marjory.

"Hurry out and get a taxi," he said. "We can't allow the man to be arrested."

"He tried to shoot--himself?" she asked.

"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please."

As she went out, he turned to Marie.

"Help madame into her room," he ordered.

Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and Marie the other, so madame went.

Then he came back to Hamilton.

"Madame has sent for the police. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hamilton answered dully.

"And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on which gets here first whether you go to jail or not," said Monte.

Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees were beginning to feel weak.

Marjory was back in a minute, and when she came in Monte was on his feet again.

"It's at the door," she said.

At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to revive; but Monte had him instantly by the arm.

"Come on," he ordered.

He shoved the boy ahead a little as he pa.s.sed Marjory, and turning, drew the revolver from his pocket. He did not dare take it with him, because he knew that in five minutes he would be unable to use it.

Hamilton, on the other hand, might not be. He shoved it into her hand.

"Take it upstairs and hide it," he said. "Be careful with it."

"You're coming back here?" she asked quickly.