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 anticipated. 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?"
"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."
"I would. I'd go a long way--to Japan or India."
The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes.
"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you don't go she'll have to."
"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.
"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in hell first. It's no business of yours, I say."
"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged."
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.