PISTOLS
Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte come down the stairs, for he was sitting in a chair near the window, with his head in his hands, and did not move even when Monte entered the room.
"Hello, Hamilton," said Covington.
Hamilton sprang to his feet—a shaking, ghastly remnant of a man. He had grown thinner and paler than when Covington last saw him. But his eyes—they held Covington for a moment. They burned in their hollow sockets like two candles in a dark room.
"Covington!" gasped the man.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"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.