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."
"He tried to shoot—himself?" she asked.
"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please."
As she went out, he turned to Marie.
"Help madame into her room," he ordered.
Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and Marie the other, so madame went.
Then he came back to Hamilton.