icipated--the question that might have caused him some
embarrassment 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 ass of yourself this
morning," nodded Monte.

Hamilton sank back limply in his chair.

"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my God, 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.

"Damn 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-God 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 beatin