"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 anticipated--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.