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 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'?"