"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 hell 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."