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Title: Captains of souls

Author: Edgar Wallace

Release date: November 5, 2024 [eBook #74687]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAINS OF SOULS ***







  CAPTAINS OF SOULS


  By EDGAR WALLACE



  A. L. BURT COMPANY
  Publishers New York

  Printed in U. S. A.




  Copyright, 1922
  BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
  (Incorporated)


  Printed in the United States of America




  Dedicated to
  "Tookie"




Contents

Book the First

Book the Second

Book the Third

Book the Fourth




Captains of Souls




_BOOK THE FIRST_


I

Beryl Merville wrote:


"_Dear Ronnie_: We are back from Italy, arriving this afternoon.
Daddy thought you would be there to meet us, and I was so
disappointed to find nobody but Mr. Steppe.  Oh, yes!  I know that he
is a most important person, and his importance was supported by his
new car; such an impressive treasure, with a collapsible
writing-table and cigar-lighter and library--actually a library in a
cunning little locker under one of the seats.  I just glanced at them.

I am a little afraid of Mr. Steppe, yet he was kindness itself, and
that bull voice of his, bellowing orders to porters and chauffeur and
railway policemen was comforting in a way.  Daddy is a little
plaintive on such occasions.

I thought he was looking unusually striking--Steppe I mean.  People
certainly do look at him, with his black, pointed beard and his
bristling, black eyebrows.  You like him, don't you?  Perhaps I
should too, only--he is very magnetic; a commanding person, he
frightens me, I repeat.  And I have met another man, I don't think
you know him, he said he had never met you.  Daddy knows him rather
well, and so does Mr. Steppe.  Such a queer man, Ronnie!

He arrived after Daddy had gone to his club, to collect some
correspondence.  The maid came and told me there was a strange man in
the hall who said Dr. Merville had sent for him; so I went down to
see him.

He made the queerest impression on me.  You will be amused, but not
flattered, when I confess that the moment I saw him, I thought of
you!  I had a sort of warm impulse toward him.  I felt as though I
were meeting you, as I wanted you to be.  That sounds feeble, and
lame, but employing my limited vocabulary to the best of my poor
ability, I am striving to reduce my mad impression to words.  How mad
it was, you'll understand.  For, Ronnie, he was a stoutish man of
middle age--no more like you than I am like Mr. Steppe!  Yet when I
saw this shabbily dressed person (the knees of his trousers shone and
the laces of his untidy boots were dragging) I just gasped.  He sat
squarely on one of the hall chairs, a big, rough hand on each knee,
and he was staring in an absent-minded way at the wall.  He didn't
even see me when I stood almost opposite to him.  But his head,
Ronnie!  It was the head of a conqueror; one of those heroes of
antiquity.  You see their busts in the museums and wonder who they
are.  A broad, eagle face, strangely dark, and on top a shock of
gray-white hair brushed back into a mane.  He had the most beautiful
eyes I have ever seen in a man, and when they turned in my direction,
and he got up from his chair, not awkwardly as I expected, but with
the ease of an Augustus, there was within them so much
loving-kindness that I felt I could have cried.

And please, Ronnie, do not tell me that I am neurotic and over-tired.
I was just mad--nothing worse than that.  I'm mad still, for I cannot
get him out of my mind.  His name is Ambrose Sault, and he is
associated with daddy and Mr. Steppe, though I think that he is
really attached to that horrid Greek person to whom daddy introduced
me--Moropulos.  What sort of work he does for Moropulos I have not
discovered.  There is always a great deal of mystery about Mr.
Moropulos and Mr. Steppe's business schemes.  Sometimes I am very
uncomfortable--which is a very mild way of describing my
feelings--about daddy--and things.

Ronnie, you have some kind of business dealings with father, what is
it all about?  I should so like to discover.  It is to do with
companies and corporations, isn't it?  I know Mr. Steppe is a great
financier, but I don't quite know how financiers work.  I suppose I
ought not to be curious, but it worries me--no, bothers is a better
word--sometimes.

Come and see me soon, Ronnie.  I promise you I won't--you know.  I've
never forgiven myself for hurting you so.  It was such a horrid
story--I blame myself for listening, and hate myself for telling you.
But the girl's brother was so earnest, and so terribly upset, and the
girl herself was so wickedly circumstantial.  You have forgiven me?
It was my first experience of blackmailers and I ought to have known
you better and liked you better than to believe that you would be
such a brute--and she was such a common girl, too--"


She stopped writing and looked round.  "Come in."

The maid was straightening her face as she entered.  "That gentleman,
miss, Mr. Sault, has called."

Beryl tapped her lips with the feathered penholder.  "Did you tell
him that the doctor was out?"

"Yes, miss.  He asked if you were in.  I told him I'd go and see."
Something about the visitor had amused the girl, for the corners of
her lips twitched.

"Why are you laughing, Dean?"  Beryl's manner was unusually cold and
her grave eyes reproving.  For no reason that she could assign, she
felt called upon to defend this man, against the ridicule which she
perceived in the maid's attitude.

"Oh, miss, he was so strange!  He said: 'Perhaps _she_ will see me.'
'Do you mean Miss Merville?' says I.  'Merville!' he says in a queer
way, 'of course, Beryl Merville,' and then he said something to
himself.  It sounded like 'how pitiful'.  I don't think he is quite
all there, miss."

"Show him up, please," said Beryl quietly.  She recognized the
futility of argument.  Dean and her type found in the contemplation
of harmless lunacy a subject for merriment--and Dean was the best
maid she had had for years.  She sat waiting for the man, uncertain.
Why did she want to see him?  She was not really curious by nature
and the crude manners of the class to which he belonged usually
rubbed her raw.  The foulness of their speech, the ugliness of their
ideals and their lives; the gibberish, almost an unknown language to
her, of the cockney man and woman, all these things grated.  Perhaps
she was a neurotic after all; Ronnie was quite sure of his judgment
in most matters affecting her.

Ambrose Sault, standing in the doorway, hat in hand, saw her bite her
lower lip reflectively.  She looked around with a start of surprise
and, seeing him, got up.  He was a colored man!  She had not realized
this before, and she was unaccountably hurt; just colored and yet his
eyes were gray!

"I hope I haven't disturbed you, mademoiselle," he said.  His voice
was very soft and very sweet.  Mademoiselle?  A Creole--a
Madagascan--an octoroon?  From one of the French foreign territories,
perhaps.  He spoke English without an accent, but the "mademoiselle"
had come so naturally to his lips.

"You are French, Mr. Sault--your name of course?"  She smiled at him
questioningly and wondered why she troubled to ask questions at all.

"No, mademoiselle," he shook his great head and the mask of a face
did not relax.  "I am from Barbadoes, but I have lived in Port de
France, that is, in Martinique, for many years.  I was also in
Noumea, in New Caledonia, that is also French."

There was an awkward silence here.  Yet he was not embarrassed and
displayed no incertitude of his position.  Her dilemma came from the
fact that she judged men by her experience and acquaintance with
them, and the empirical method fails before the unusual--Ambrose
Sault was that.

"My father will be home very soon, Mr. Sault.  Won't you please sit
down?"  As he chose a chair with some deliberation it occurred to her
that she would find a difficulty in explaining to the fastidious Dr.
Merville, why she had invited this man to await him in the
drawing-room.  Strangely enough, she herself felt the capacity of
entertaining and being entertained by the visitor and she had no such
spasm of dismay as had come to her, when other, and more presentable,
visitors, had settled themselves for a lengthy call.  This fact
puzzled her.  Ambrose Sault was--an artisan perhaps, a messenger,
more likely.  The shabbiness of his raiment and the carelessness of
his attire suggested some menial position.  One waistcoat button had
been fastened into the wrong buttonhole, the result was a little
grotesque.

"Have you been working very long, with my father?" she asked.

"No--not a very long time," he said.  "Moropulos and Steppe know him
better than I."

He checked himself.  She knew that he would not talk any more about
his associates and the enigma which their companionship presented
would remain unsolved, so far as he could give a solution.
"Moropulos"--"Steppe"?  He spoke as an equal.  Even Ronnie was
deferential to Mr. Steppe and was in awe of him.  Her father made no
attempt to hide his nervousness in the presence of that formidable
person.  Yet this man could dispense with the title.  It was not
bravado on his part, the conscious impertinence of an underling,
desirous of asserting his equality.  Obviously, he thought of Mr.
Steppe as "Steppe".  What would he call her father?  No occasion
arose, but she was certain he would have been "Merville" and no more.

Sault's eyes were settled on her, absorbing her; yet his gaze lacked
offence, being without hostility, or notable admiration.  She had a
ridiculous sensibility of praise.  So he might have looked upon
Naples from the sea, or upon the fields of narcissi above Les Avants,
or the breath-taking loveliness of the hills of Monticattini in the
blue afterlight of sunset.  She could not meet his eyes--yet was
without discomfort.  The praise of his conspection was not human.

She laughed, artificially, she thought, and reached out for a book
that lay on the table.

"We have just returned from Italy," she said.  "Do you know Italy at
all, Mr. Sault?"

"I do not know Italy," he said, and took the book she held to him.

"This is rather a wonderful account of Lombardy and its history," she
said.  "Perhaps you would like to read it?"

He turned the leaves idly and smiled at her.  She had never seen a
man smile so sweetly.

"I cannot read," he said simply.

She did not understand his meaning for a while thinking that his
eyesight was failing.

"Perhaps you would care to take it home."

He shook his head and the book came back to her.

"I cannot read," he said, without shame, "or write--at least I cannot
write words.  Figures, yes, figures are easy; somebody told me--he
was a professor of English I think, at one of the universities--that
it was astonishing that I could work out mathematical problems and
employ all the signs and symbols of trigonometry and algebra without
being able to write.  I wish I could read.  When I pass a bookshop I
feel like an armless man who is starving within hands' reach of
salvation.  I know a great deal and I pay a man to read to me--Livy
and Prescott and Green, and, of course, Bacon--I know them all.
Writing does not worry me--I have no friends."

If he had spoken apologetically, if he had displayed the least
aggression, she might have classified, and held him in a place.  But
he spoke of his shortcomings as he might have spoken of his gray
hair, as a phenomenon beyond his ordering.

She was thunderstruck; possibly he was so used to shocking people
from this cause that he did not appear to observe the effect he had
produced.

He was so completely content with this, the first contact with his
dream woman, that he was almost incapable of receiving any other
impression.  Her hair was fairer than he had thought, the nose
thinner, the molding of her delicate face more spirituel.  The lips
redder and fuller, the rounded chin less firm.  And the eyes--he
wished she would turn her head so that he could be sure of their
color.  They were big, set wide apart, there was depth in them and a
something upon which he yearned.  The figure of her he knew by heart.
Straight and tall and most gracious.  A patrician; he thought of her
as that.  And oriental.  He had pictured her as a great lady at
Constantine's court; he set her upon the marble terrace of a decent
villa on the hills above the Chrysopolis; a woman of an illustrious
order.

She could never suspect that he thought of her at all as a distinct
personality.  She could not guess that he knew her as well as his own
right hand; that, day after day, he had waited in the Row, a shabby
and inconspicuous figure amongst the smart loungers: waited for the
benison of her presence.  She had not seen him in Devon in the
spring--he had been there.  Lying on the rain-soaked grass of Tapper
Downs to watch her walking with her father; sitting amidst gorse on
the steep slope of the cliff, she unconscious of his guardianship,
reading in her chair on the smooth beach.

"How curious, I nearly said 'sad'.  But you do not feel very sad
about it, Mr. Sault, do you?"  Amused, he shook his head.

"It would be irritating," he said, "if I were sorry for myself.  But
I am never that.  Half the unhappiness of life comes from the vanity
of self-pity.  It is the mother of all bitterness.  Do you realize
that?  You cannot feel bitter without feeling sorry for yourself."
She nodded.

"You miss a great deal--but you know that--poetry.  I suppose you
have that read to you?"

Ambrose Sault laughed softly.  "Yes--poetry.

  "'Out of the dark which covers me,
    Black as a pit from pole to pole,
  I thank whatever gods there be,
    For my unconquerable soul--'

"That poem and Theocrite, and only two lines of Theocrite, are the
beginning and the end of my poetical leanings.  I attend lectures of
course.  Lectures on English, on architecture, music,
history--especially history--oh, a hundred subjects.  And
mathematics.  You can get those in the extension classes only,
unfortunately, I cannot qualify for admission to the classes
themselves."

"Have you never tried to--to--"

"Read and write?  Yes.  My room is packed with little books and big
books.  A-b, ab; c-a-t, cat; and copy books.  But I just can't.  I
can write the letters of the alphabet, a few of them that are
necessary for mathematical calculations, very well; but I cannot go
any further.  I seem to slip into a fog, a sort of impenetrable wall
of thick mist that confuses and baffles me.  I know that c-a-t is
'cat' but when I see 'cat' written it is a meaningless combination of
straight and curved lines.  It is sheerly physical--the doctors have
a word for it--I cannot remember what it is for the moment, I just
can't read--"

Dr. Merville came in at that moment, a thin colorless man, myopic,
irritable, chronically worried.  He entered the drawing-room
hurriedly.  Beryl thought he must have run upstairs.  His frowning,
dissatisfied glance was toward Sault; the girl he ignored.

"Hello, Sault--had no idea you were here.  Will you come into my
study?"  He was breathless and Beryl knew by the signs that he was
angry about something.  It occurred to her instantly, that he was
annoyed with her for entertaining the untidy visitor.  The study was
next door to the drawing-room and he walked out with a beckoning jerk
of his chin.

"I am glad to have met you, mademoiselle."  Ambrose Sault was not to
be hurried.  Returning to the open doorway, Dr. Merville, clucking
his impatience, witnessed the leisurely leave-taking.

The study door had scarcely closed on the visitor before it opened
again and her father returned. "Why the deuce did you ask that fellow
up, Beryl?  He could have very well waited in the servants' hall--or
in the breakfast room or anywhere.  Suppose--somebody had called!"

"I thought he was a friend of Mr. Steppe's," she said calmly.  "You
know such extraordinary people.  What is he?"

"Who, Sault?  Well, he is--"

Dr. Merville was not immediately prepared to define the position of
his visitor.  "In a sense he is an employee of Moropulos--picked him
up in his travels.  He is an anarchist."

She stared.  "A what?"

"Well, not exactly an anarchist--communist--anyway, he has quaint
views on--things.  Believes in the equality of the human race.  An
extraordinary fellow, a dreamer, got a crazy idea of raising a
million to found a college, that's what he calls it, The Mother
College--can't stop now, darling, but please don't make a fuss of
him.  He is just a little difficult as it is.  I will tell you about
him some day."  He bustled out of the room and the study door closed
with a thud.

Beryl Merville considered Ambrose Sault for a very long time before
she turned to her writing-table, where the unfinished letter to
Ronald Morelle invited a conclusion.




II

"Well, Sault, why have you come?  Anything wrong?"  Beryl would have
thought Dr. Merville's manner strangely mild and conciliatory after
his show of antagonism toward the visitor.

Sault had seated himself on the edge of a low chesterfield under the
curtained window.  "Moropulos is worried about some people who called
at his bureau today.  They came to ask him about a letter that had
been sent to him from South Africa by the assistant manager of the
Brakfontein Diamond Mine."

Merville was standing by the library table, in the center of the
room.  The hand that played with the leaves of a magazine was
trembling ever so slightly.  "What has happened--how did they
know--who were they?" he demanded shakily.

"I think it was the managing director, the American gentleman.  He
was very angry.  They discovered that the manager had been receiving
money from London soon after he made his report.  Moropulos told me
that the shares had dropped thirty points since yesterday morning.
Mr. Divverly said that Moropulos and his gang, those were the words I
think, had bribed the manager to keep back the report that the mine
was played out.  I suppose he did.  I know very little about stocks
and shares."

Dr. Merville was biting his knuckles, a weak and vacillating man;
Sault had no doubts as to this, and it hurt him every time he
realized that this invertebrate creature was Beryl Merville's father.
How and why had he come into the strange confederation?

"I can do nothing," the doctor was fretful, his voice jerky; he fixed
and removed his pince-nez and fixed them again.  "Nothing!  I do not
know why these people make inquiries.  There was nothing dishonest in
selling stock which you know will fall--it is a part of the process
of speculation, isn't it, Sault?  All the big houses work on secret
information received or bought.  If--if Moropulos or Steppe care to
buy information, that is nobody's affair--"

"There may be an inquiry on the Stock Exchange," said Sault calmly.
"Moropulos asked me to tell you that.  The Johannesburg committee
have taken up the matter and have called for information.  You see,
the manager has confessed."

"Confessed!" gasped the doctor and went white.

"So Mr. Divverly says.  He has told the directors that Moropulos had
the information a month before the directors."

The doctor sat down heavily on the nearest chair.  "I don't see--that
it affects us," he protested feebly, "there is no offense in getting
a tip about a failing property, is there, Sault?"

"I don't know.  Moropulos says it is conspiracy.  They can prove it
if--"

"If--?"

"If they find the letters which the manager wrote.  Moropulos has
them in his desk."

Merville sprang up.  "Then they must be destroyed!" he cried
violently.  "It is madness to keep them--I had no idea--of course he
must burn them.  Go back and tell him to do this, Sault."

Ambrose Sault put his hand into the fold of his shabby jacket and
brought out a bundle of documents.  "They are here," he said in a
matter of fact tone.  "Moropulos says that you must keep them.  They
may get a warrant to search his house."

"Keep them--I?" Merville almost screamed, "Moropulos is a fool--burn
them!"

Sault shook his head.  "Steppe say 'no'.  They may be useful later.
You must keep them, doctor.  It is Steppe's wish.  Tomorrow I will
start working on the safe."

Dr. Merville took the papers from the outstretched hand and looked
around helplessly.  There was a steel box on his desk.  He took out
his key, looked again and more dubiously at the packet of letters and
dropped them into the box.  "What is this safe, Sault?  I know that
you are a devilish clever fellow with your hands and Moropulos
mentioned something about a safe.  You are not making it?"

Sault nodded and there was a gleam in his fine eyes.

"But why?  Moropulos has a safe and Steppe must possess dozens.  Why
not buy another, if he must have a special place for these wretched
things?"

"You cannot buy the safe that I shall make," said the dark man
quietly.  "It has taken me a year to invent the dial--eh?  Yes,
combination.  They are easy, but not this one.  A word will open it,
any other word, any other combination of letters, and there will be
nothing to find."

The doctor frowned.

"You mean if any other person--the police for example, try to open
the safe the contents are destroyed?"

Sault nodded.

"How?"

The visitor, his business at an end, rose.

"That is simple, a twist of the hand, unless the combination is true,
releases a quart of acid, any of the corrosive acids will serve."

Merville bent his head in thought.  Presently he saw a flaw in the
invention.  "Suppose they don't touch the lock?" he asked.  "Suppose
they burn out the side of the safe--it can be done, I believe--what
then?"

Ambrose Sault gave that soft laugh of his.  "The sides will be
hollow, and filled from the inside of the safe, with water pumped in
at a pressure.  Cut through the safe, and the water escapes and
releases a plunger that brings about the same result--the contents of
the safe are destroyed."

"You are a strange creature--the strangest I have met.  I don't
understand you," Merville shook his head.  "I hope you will hurry
with that safe."  As Sault was at the door he asked: "Where did
Moropulos find you, Sault?"

The man turned.  "He found me in the sea," he said.  "Moropulos was
trading in those days.  He had a sloop--pearl smuggling, I think.  I
thought he had told you.  I never make any secret about it."

"In the sea--for heavens sake what do you mean?  Where?"

"Ten miles off the Isle of Pines.  I got away from Noumea in a boat.
Noumea is the capital of New Caledonia.  I and three _Canaques_--they
were under sentence for cannibalism.  We ran into a cyclone and
swamped, just as we were trying to make the sloop which was standing
in to the lee of the island.  Moropulos took me on board and the
natives; when he found that I was a convict--"

"A convict--a French convict!"

Sault was leaning easily, his cheek against the hand that gripped the
edge of the open door.  He nodded.  "I thought he had told you.  Of
course, he would have taken me back to Noumea for the reward, only he
had a cargo on board which he did not want the French to see.  I
found afterwards that when we called at the Loyalty Island, he tried
to sell me back, but couldn't get a price."

He smiled broadly as at a very pleasant recollection, "Moropulos
would sell me now," he said, "only I am useful."

"But why--why were you imprisoned?" asked Merville, awe-stricken at
the tremendous revelation.

"I killed a man," said Sault.  "Good night, doctor."




III

It was a Monday morning and a bank holiday.  A few regular habituées
of the park to whom the word "holiday" had no especial significance,
had overlooked the fact and took their cantering exercise a little
selfconsciously under admiring eyes of the people who seldom saw
people riding on horseback for the pleasure of it.  The day was fine
and warm, the hawthorn trees were thickly frosted with their cerise
and white blossoms; stiff crocuses flamed in every bed and the
banners of the daffodils fluttered in the light breeze that blew
halfheartedly across the wide green spaces.  On every path the
holiday-makers straggled, small mothers laden with large babies;
shopboys in garments secretly modelled on the supermen they served;
girls from the stores in their bargain-price finery; young men with
and without hats, the waitresses of closed teashops, and here and
there a pompous member of the bourgeoisie conscious of his
superiority to the crowd with which, in his condescension, he mingled.

There is one shady place which faces Park Lane--a stretch of wooded
lawn where garden chairs are set six deep.  Behind this phalanx there
is an irregular fringe of seats, usually in couples, and greatly in
request during the darker hours.  In the early morning, before the
energies of the promenaders are exhausted, the spot is deserted.  But
two young people occupied chairs this morning.  There was nothing in
the appearance of the girl that would have made the companionship
seem incongruous.  In her tailored costume, the unobtrusive hat and
the simplicity of her toilette, she might as well have been the
youngest daughter of a duke or a workgirl with a judgment in dress.
Her clothes would not be "priced" by the most expert of women critics
and even stockings and shoes, the last hope of the appraiser, would
have baffled.  No two glances would have been required to put the man
in his class.  If he was a thought dandified, it was the
dandification of a gentleman.  He looked what he was, a man of
leisure; the type which is to be found in the Guards or the smartest
regiment of cavalry.  Yet Ronald Morelle was no soldier.  He had
served during the war, but had seen none of its devastations.  He
hated the violence of battle and despised the vulgarity of noisy
patriotism.  His knowledge of Italian had secured him a
quasi-diplomatic appointment, nominally at the Italian headquarters,
actually in Rome.  He had used every influence that could be
employed, pulled every string that could be pulled, to keep him from
the disorder of the front line, and fortune had favored him to an
extraordinary extent.  On the very day he received instructions to
report to the regiment with which he had trained, the armistice was
signed--he saw the last line of trenches which the British had
prepared but never occupied, south of Amiens, saw them from the train
that carried him home, and thought that they looked beastly
uncomfortable.

The girl by his side would not be alone in thinking him good-looking.
He was that rarity, a perfectly featured man.  His skin was
faultless; his straight nose, his deep-set brown eyes, his
irreproachable mouth, were excellent.  The hyper-critical might cavil
at the almost feminine chin.  A small brown moustache was probably
responsible for the illusion that he favored the profession of arms.

Evie Colebrook thought he was the most beautiful man in the world,
and when he smiled, as he was smiling now, she dared not look at him.
He was talking about looks, and she was deliciously flattered.  "How
ridiculous you are, Mr. Morelle," she protested, "I suppose you have
said that to thousands and thousands of girls?"

"Not quite so many, Evie," he answered.  "To be exact, I can't
remember having been so shamelessly complimentary to any girl before.
You need not call me 'Mr. Morelle' unless you wish to--my friends
call me 'Ronnie'."

She played with the handkerchief on her lap.  "It seems so familiar.
Honestly, Ronnie, aren't you rather--what is the word?  The book you
lent me--a play?"

"A philanderer?" suggested the other.  "My dear child, how silly you
are.  Of course I'm not.  Very few people have impressed me as you
have.  It must have been fate that took me into Burts--I never go
into shops, but François--that's my man--"

"I know him," she nodded, "he often comes in.  I used to wonder who
he was."

"He was out and I wanted--I forget what it was I wanted, even forget
whether I bought it.  I must have done, otherwise I should not have
found myself staring over a paydesk at the most lovely girl in all
the world."

She laughed, a gurgling laugh of sheer happiness, and looked at him
swiftly before she dropped her eyes again.

"I like to hear that," she said softly.  "It is so wonderful--that
you like me, I mean.  Because I'm nothing, really.  And you, you're
a--well, gentleman.  I know you hate the word, but you are.  Miles
and miles above me.  Why, I live in a miserable little house in a
horrible neighborhood--full of thieves and terrible creatures who
drink.  And my mother does odd jobs for people.  And I'm not very
well educated--really.  I can read and write, but I'm not half so
clever as Christina, that is my sister.  She's an invalid and reads
all day and all night too, if I'd let her."

He was watching her as she spoke.  The play of color in her pretty
face, the rise and fall of her narrow chest, the curve of chin and
the velvet smoothness of her throat--he marked them all with the eye
of the gourmet who watches lambs frisking in the pasture and sees,
not the poetry and beauty of young life, but a likeable dish that
will one day mature.  "If you were a beggar-maid and I were a
prince"--he began.

"I'm not much better, am I?" she asked ruefully, "and you are a
prince, to me, Ronnie--"  She was thinking.

"Yes?"

"How can anything come right for us?  I don't want to think about it
and I try ever so hard to keep it out of my thoughts.  I'm so
happy--meeting you--and loving you--and tomorrow never comes, but--"

"You mean how will this dear friendship end?"  She nodded.

"How would you like it to end?"

Evie Colebrook poked the furrel of her sunshade into the grass and
turned up a tuft of clover.  "There is only one way it can ever
end--happily," she said in a low voice, "and that is--well you know,
Ronnie."

He laughed.  "With you in a beautiful white dress and a beautiful
white veil and a wreath of orange blossoms round your glorious hair,
and a fat and nasty old man in a surplice reading a few passages from
a book; and people leering at you as you go down the aisle and
saying--well, you know what they say.  I think a wedding is the most
indelicate function which society affects."

She said nothing, but continued prodding at the turf.  "It can be
done quietly," she said at last.

Leaning toward her, he slipped his hand under her arm.  "Evie, is
love nothing?" he asked earnestly, "isn't it the biggest thing?  What
is the most decent, a wedding between two people who halfhate one
another, but are marrying because one wants money and the other a
swagger wife, or an everlasting love union between a man and a woman
whom God has bound with bonds that a parson cannot strengthen or a
snuffy judge cannot break?"

She sighed, the quick, double sigh of one half convinced.

"You make me feel that I'm common and--and brainless, and anyway, I
don't want to talk about it.  Ronnie, I suppose you're awfully busy
this morning?"  She looked wistfully at the big Rolls that was drawn
up by the side of the road.

"I am rather," he said, "I wish I weren't.  I'd love to drive you
somewhere--anywhere so long as you were by my side, little fairy.
When shall I see you again?"

"On Sunday?" she asked as they strolled toward the car.

"Why not come up to the flat to tea on Saturday afternoon?" he
suggested, but she shook her head.

"I'd rather not, Ronnie--do you mind?  I--well, I don't want to
somehow.  Am I an awful pig?"

He smiled down on her.  "Of course not--oh, damn!"

A girl on a horse had just cantered past.  She saw him and lifted her
whip to acknowledge his raised hat.

"Who is that?"  Evie was more than curious.

"A girl I know," he said suavely.  "The daughter of my doctor, and
rather a gossip."

"You're ashamed of being seen with me."

"Rubbish!" he laughed.  "I am so proud of you that I wish she had
stopped, confound her!"  He took her hand and smiled into her eyes.
"Goodbye, beloved," he breathed.

Evie Colebrook watched the car until it had turned out of sight.  It
was following the gossiping girl, but she did not care.  She went
home walking on air.

At the corner of the Row, the big car drew abreast of the rider.
"Why on earth are you riding on Bank Holiday, Beryl--the park is full
of louts, and there aren't half-a-dozen people in the Row!"

Beryl Merville looked at him quizzically.  "And why on earth are you
in the park, Ronnie; and who was your beautiful little friend?"

He frowned.  "Friend?  Oh, you mean the girl I was speaking to?
Would you call her beautiful--yes, I suppose she is pretty, but quite
a kid.  Her father is an old friend of mine--colonel--I forget his
name, he is something at the War Office.  I have an idea they live
near the park.  I saw her walking and stopped the car to talk to her.
Frankly I was so bored that I almost fell on her neck.  I wasn't with
her for five minutes."

Beryl nodded and dismissed the matter from her mind.  She was more
interested in another subject.

"Yes, dear, I had your letter.  I'm an awful brute not to have come
over and seen you.  But the fact is, I have been working hard.  Don't
sneer, Beryl.  I really have.  Sturgeon, the editor of the
_Post-Herald_, has discovered in me a latent genius for writing.  It
is rather fun--apparently I have a flair for that kind of work."

"But, Ronnie, this is great news!  Stop your car by the corner and
find a man to hold my horse--there is an awful lot I want to talk to
you about."

He parked his car and, helping her dismount, handed the reins to an
idle groom.  A watchful attendant drew near.

"You will have to pay for the seats, Ronnie, I have no money."

"Happily I have two tickets," he said and realized his mistake before
he drew them from his pocket.

"I thought you hadn't been with your colonel's daughter more than
five minutes?" she challenged and laughed, "I sometimes think that
you'd rather lie than eat!"

"My dear Beryl," Mr. Morelle's tone revealed both shock and injury.
"Did I say that I didn't sit with her?  I couldn't be so uncivil as
to expect her to stand.  The fact is, that she hinted that she would
like me to drive her round the park and I had no wish to."

"Never mind your guilty secret," she said gaily, "tell me all about
your new job.  Poor Ronnie, so they have made you work at last!  I
feared this."

Ronnie smiled good-naturedly.  "It is amusing," he said.  "I was
always rather keen on that kind of work, even when I was at Oxford.
Sturgeon saw some verses of mine in one of the quarterlies and asked
me if I would care to describe a motor-car race--the Gordon Bennett
cup.  I took it on and he seemed immensely pleased with the account I
wrote.  I feel that I am doing some poor devil out of a job, but--"

"But it doesn't keep you awake at nights," she finished.  "But how
lovely, Ronald.  You will be able to describe Mr. Steppe's
trial--everybody says that one of these days he will be tried--"

Ronald Morelle was not amused.  She saw a frown gather on his
forehead and remembered that he and Mr. Steppe had some association.

"Of course I'm joking, Ronnie.  How awfully touchy you are!  Mr.
Steppe is quite nice, and people invariably say unpleasant things
about a successful man."

"Steppe--" he paused.  There was a nervousness in his manner and in
his tone which he could not disguise.  "Steppe is quite a good
fellow.  A little rough, but he was trained in a rough school.  He is
very nearly the cleverest financier in this country or any other."
He would have changed the conversation had she not interpolated a
question.

"I do not know him--Sault you said?  No, I've never met him.  He does
odd jobs for Moropulos.  A half-caste, isn't he?  What nerve the
fellow had to come to the house!  Why didn't you kick him out?"

"It is obvious that you haven't seen him or you wouldn't ask such a
question," she replied, her eyes twinkling.

"I don't know what he does," Ronnie went on.  "Steppe has a good
opinion of him.  That is all I know.  He has three decorations for
something he did in the war.  He was in the Field Ambulance and
brought in a lot of people from No Man's Land.  He is quite old,
isn't he?"

She nodded.  "Moropulos isn't anything to boast about.  Steppe likes
him, though."  Apparently the cachet of Mr. Steppe satisfied Ronnie
in all things.  "He's a Greek--you've met him?  A sleek devil.  They
say that he's afraid except when he is drunk."

"Ronnie!"

"A fact.  Moropulos drinks like a fish.  Absinthe and all sorts of
stuff.  Steppe told me.  That is why this nigger fellow Sault is
useful.  Sault is the only man who can handle him.  He's as strong as
an ox.  There isn't a smarter devil than Moropulos.  He has the brain
of a cabinet minister, and is as close as an oyster.  But when the
fit is on him he'd stand up in the street and talk himself into gaol.
And others--not Steppe, of course," he added hastily, "Steppe has
nothing to be afraid of, only--well, Moropulos might say things that
would look bad."

"And is that all?" she asked with an odd sense of disappointment.
"Doesn't Mr. Sault do anything else but act as a sort of keeper?"

Ronnie, already weary of the subject, yawned behind his hand.
"Awfully sorry, but I was up late last night.  Sault?  Oh, yes, I
believe he does odd jobs.  He is rather an ugly brute, isn't he?"

She did not answer this.  Her interest in the man puzzled her.  He
appealed in a strange fashion to something within her that was very
wholesome.  She was glad, very glad, about his war decorations.  That
he should have done fine things--she liked to forget Ronnie's war
services.

"I wish I had decided to ride this morning," complained Ronnie.  "I
never dreamed you would be out on a day like this.  Why I came into
the park at all I really do not know.  I didn't realize it was a bank
holiday and that all these dreadful people would be unchained for the
day.  How is the doctor--well?"  She nodded.

"He looked a little peaked when I saw him last.  Look,
Beryl--Steppe!" A car, headed for Marble Arch, had swerved across the
road in response to the signal of its occupant.  It pulled up behind
Ronald's machine and Mr. Steppe, with his queer sideways smile,
alighted, waving a white-gloved hand.

"Oh, dear," said Beryl plaintively, "why did I get off that horse?  I
could have pretended that I had not recognized him."

"My dear girl!"

Ronald was genuinely distressed and it came to Beryl in the nature of
an unpleasant discovery that he was so completely in awe of the
financier, that his manner, his attitude, the very tone of his voice,
changed at the sight of him.  And Steppe seemed to expect this
homage, took it as his right, dismissed and obliterated Ronnie from
participation with a jerk of his head intended as an acknowledgment
of his greeting and as an excusal of his presence.

Beryl could not help realizing his unimportance in the millionaire's
scheme of life.

The photographs of Jan Steppe which have from time to time appeared
in the public press, at once flatter and disparage him.  The lens has
depicted faithfully the short black beard, the thick black eyebrows,
the broad nose and the thick bull neck of him.  They missed his
immense vitality, the aura of power which enveloped him, his dominant
and forceful ego.  His voice was thick and deep, sometimes in a
moment of excitement guttural, for his grandfather had been a
Transvaal Boer, a _byworner_ who had become, successively, farmer and
mine owner.  Jan Cornelius Steppe, the first, had spoken no English;
his son Commandant Steppe, an enlightened and scholarly man, spoke it
well.  He had been killed at Tugela Drift in the war, whilst Jan the
third was in England at a preparation school.

"Huh!  Beryl!  Very good luck, huh?  I shall miss my train but it is
worth while.  Riding?  God!  I wish I wasn't so fat and lazy.  Motor
cars are the ruin of us.  My grandfather rode twenty miles a day and
my father was never off a horse.  Huh!"

Beryl often asked her father why Mr. Steppe grunted at the end of his
every question.  But it was not a grunt.  It was a throaty growl cut
short, a terrifying mannerism of his, meaningless but menacing.  She
used to wonder whether the impression of ruthless ferocity which he
gave, was not more than half due to this peculiarity.  He towered
above her, a mountain of a man, broad of shoulder and long of arm.
There was something simian about him, something that was almost
obscene.  He was fond of describing himself as fat, but this was an
exaggeration.  He had bulk, he was in the truest sense gross, but she
would not have described him as fat.

"Sit down," he commanded, "I haven't seen you since Friday.  The
doctor came in yesterday morning.  Nerves, huh?  What's the matter
with him?"

Beryl laughed.  "Father receives a great deal of misplaced sympathy.
He is really very well.  He has been jumpy ever since I can remember."

Steppe nodded.  He was sitting by her side in the chair vacated by
Ronnie, and Ronnie was standing.

"Sit down, Ronnie," she pointed to a chair at the other side of her.

"No-no thank you, Beryl," he said hastily, for all the world like a
schoolboy asked to sit in the presence of his master.

"Sit down," growled Steppe, and to the girl's amazement, Ronnie sat.
It was the only notice Jan Steppe took of his presence throughout the
interview, and Ronnie neither showed resentment nor made the
slightest attempt to intrude into the conversation that followed.

Presently Steppe looked at his watch.  "I can catch that train," he
said, and got up.  "You're coming to dinner with me next week--I'll
fix the date with the doctor."  She said she would be delighted.
Something of the mastership extended to her.

"You saw Sault?"  He turned back after he had taken her hand.  "Queer
fellow, huh?  Big man, huh?"

"I thought he was--interesting," she admitted.

"Yes--interesting.  A man."  He glowered at Ronald Morelle.
"Interesting," he repeated, and went away with that.  Her fascinated
gaze followed him as he strode toward the car.  "Paddington--get me
there, damn you," she heard him say, and when the car had gone--

"Dynamic," she said with a sigh.  "He is like a power house.  When I
shake hands with him, I feel as though I'm going to get a bad burn!
You were very silent, Ronnie?"

"Yes--" absently.  "Old Steppe is rather a shocker, isn't he?  How
did he know you had seen Sault?"

"Father told him, I suppose.  Ronnie, are you afraid of Mr. Steppe?"

He colored.  "Afraid?  How stupid you are, Beryl!  Why should I be
afraid of him?  He's--well, I do business with him.  I am a director
of a company or two, he put me into them.  One has to--how shall I
put it?  One has to be polite to these people.  I'll go along now.
Beryl--lot of work to do."

He was uncomfortable, and she did not pursue the subject.  The
knowledge brought a little ache to her heart--that Ronnie was afraid
of Jan Steppe!  She would have given her soul to respect Ronald
Morelle as she respected the swarthy gray-haired man whom even Steppe
respected.




IV

"Children," said Mrs. Colebrook peering into the saucepan that
bubbled and splashed and steamed on the kitchen fire, "are a great
responsibility--especially in this neighborhood where, as you might
say, there is nothing but raffle."

Sometime in her youth, it is probable that Mrs. Colebrook had to
choose between "rabble" and "riff-raff" and had found a compromise.

"That man Starker who lives up the street, Number 39, I think it
is--no maybe it's 37--it is the house before the sweep's.  Well, I
did think he was all right, geraniums in his window too, and
canaries.  A very homely man, wouldn't say boo to a goose.  He got
nine months this morning."

Ambrose Sault, sitting in a wooden chair which was wedged tightly
between the kitchen table and the dresser, drummed his fingers
absently upon the polished cloth table-cover and nodded.  His dark
sallow face wore an expression of strained interest.

"Evie--well I'm worried about Evie.  She sits and broods--there's no
other word for it--by the hour, and she used to be such a bright,
cheerful girl.  I wonder sometimes if it is through her working at
the drug stores.  Being attached to medicines in a manner of
speaking, you're bound to hear awful stories--people's insides and
all that sort of thing.  It is depressing for a young girl.
Christina says she talks in her sleep and moans and tosses about.  It
can't be over a young man, or she'd bring him home.  I asked her the
other day--I think a girl's best friend is her mother--and all I got
was, 'Oh shut up, mother'.  In my young days I wouldn't have dared
speak to my mother like that, but girls have changed.  They want to
go to business, cashiering and typewriting, and such nonsense.  I
went out to service when I was sixteen and was first parlormaid
before I was twenty.  But talk to these girls about going into
domestic service and they laugh at you."  A silence followed which
Sault felt it was his duty to break.

"I suppose they do.  Life is very hard on women, even the most
favored of women.  I hardly blame them for getting whatever happiness
they can."

"Happiness!" scoffed Mrs. Colebrook, shifting the saucepan to the
hob, "it all depends on what you call 'happiness'.  I don't see much
happiness in standing in a draughty shop taking money all day and
adding up figures and stamping bills!  Besides, look at the
temptation.  She meets all kind of people--"

"I think I'll go upstairs to my room, Mrs. Colebrook.  I want to do a
little work."

"You're a worker," said Mrs. Colebrook admiringly, "I'll call you
when supper is ready."

"May I walk in to see Christina?"  He asked permission in the same
words every night and received the same answer.

"Of course you can; you need never ask, Mr. Sault.  She'll be glad to
see you."

At the head of the narrow stairway Sault knocked on a door and a
cheerful voice bade him come in.  It was a small room containing two
beds.  That which was nearest the window was occupied by a girl whose
pallor was made more strangely apparent by a mop of bright red hair.
Over her head, and hooked to the wall, was a kerosene lamp of unusual
design and brilliance.  She had been reading and one white hand lay
over the open page of a book by her side.  Sault looked up at the
lamp, touched the button that controlled the light and peered into
the flame.

"Working all right?"

"Fine," she said enthusiastically, "You're a brick, Ambrose, to make
it.  I had no idea you could do anything like that.  Mother won't
touch it; the thinks it will explode."

"It can't explode," he said, shaking his head.  "Those vapor gas
lamps are safe, unless you fool with them.  Have it put outside the
door in the morning and I'll fill it.  Well, where have you been
today, Christina?"

She showed her small white teeth in a smile.  "To Etruria," she said
solemnly.  "It is the country that was old when Rome was young.  I
went on an exploring expedition.  We left Croydon Aerodrome by
airplane and stayed overnight in Paris.  My fiancé is a French
marquis and we stayed at his place in the Avenue Kleber.  The next
morning we went by special train to Rome.  I visited the Coliseum by
car and saw the temples and the ruins.  I spent another day at the
Vatican and St. Peter's and saw the pope.  Then we went on to
Volsinii and Tarquinii and I found a wonderful old tomb full of
glorious Etruscan ware plates and amporas and vases.  They must have
been worth millions.  There we met a magician.  He lived in an old,
ruined house on the side of the hill.  He had a flock of goats and
gave us milk.  It was magic milk, for suddenly we found ourselves in
the midst of an enormous marble city full of beautiful men and women
in togas and wonderful robes.  The streets were filled with rich
chariots drawn by little horses.  The chariots shone like gold and
were covered with figures of lions and hunters, and trees and
scrolls--wonderful!  And the gardens!  They were beautiful.  Flowers
of every kind, heliotrope and roses and big, white trumpet lilies and
the marble houses were covered with wisteria--oh dear!"

"Etruria?" repeated Sault thoughtfully.  "Older than Rome?  Of
course, there must have been--people before the Romans, the sort of
ancient Britons of Rome--"

Her eyes, fixed on his, were gleaming with merriment.  "Of course.  I
told you about the marvelous trip I had to China?  When I was the
lovely concubine of Yang-Kuei-Fee?  And how the eunuchs strangled me?
That was long after Rome, but China was two thousand years old then."

"I remember," he said soberly, "you went to China once before
then----"  His glance fell on the pages of the book and he picked it
up, turning its meaningless leaves.

"It is all about Etruria," she said.  "Evie borrowed it from the
store.  They have a circulating library at the store.  Have you seen
Evie?"

He shook his head.  "Not for weeks," he said, "I am usually in my
room when she comes home."

Christina Colebrook, invalid and visionary, puckered her smooth brows
into a frown.  She had emerged from her world of dreams and
make-believe and was facing the ugliness of life that eddied about
her bed.

"Evie is changed quite a lot," she said.  "She is quieter and dresses
more carefully.  Not in the way you would notice, she always had good
taste, but especially in the way of underclothes.  All girls adore
swagger underclothes.  They live in dread that one day they will be
knocked down by a motor-bus and taken to a hospital wearing a shabby
camisole!  But Evie--she's collecting all sorts of things.  You might
think she was getting together a trousseau.  Has she ever spoken to
you about anybody called 'Ronnie'?"

"No--she never speaks to me," said Ambrose.

"You know nobody called Ronnie?"

He signified his ignorance.  At the moment he did not associate the
name.

"She talks in her sleep," Christina went on slowly, "and she's spoken
that name lots of times.  I haven't told mother; what would be the
good, with her heart as it is?  'Ronnie' is the man who is worrying
her.  I think she is in love with him, or what she thinks is love.
And he is somebody in a good station of life, because once she called
out in the middle of the night, 'Ronnie, take me in your car.'"

Sault was silent.  This was the first time Christina had ever spoken
to him about the girl.

"There is only one thing that can happen," said she wisely, "and that
would break mother's heart.  Mother has very narrow views.  The
people of our class have.  I should feel that way myself if I hadn't
seen the world," she patted the book by her side, "perhaps mother's
view is right.  She is respectable and the old Roman Emperor
Constantine, when he classified the nobility, made the 'respectable'
much superior to the 'honorable'."

"What do you mean--about Evie?"

"I mean that she'll come to me one night and tell me that she is in
trouble.  And then I shall have to get mother into a philosophical
mood and try to make her see that it is better for a child to be
illegitimate than not to be born at all."

"Good gracious!" said Ambrose, startled.  "But it may be--just a
friendship."

"Rats!" said Christina contemptuously.  "Friendships between
attractive shop girls and well-to-do young men!  I've heard about
'em--platonic.  Have you ever heard of Archianassa?  She was Plato's
mistress.  He didn't even practice the kind of love that is named
after him.  Evie is a good girl and has really fine principles.  I
shock her awfully at times, I wish I didn't.  I don't mean I wish I
didn't say things that make her shocked, but that she wouldn't be
shocked at all.  You have to have a funny kink in your mind before
you take offense at the woman and man facts.  If you blush easily,
you fall easily.  I wish to God Evie wasn't so pretty.  And she's a
dear, too, Ambrose.  She has great schemes for getting me away to a
country where my peculiar ailment will dissolve under uninterrupted
sunlight.  Poor darling!  It would be better if she thought more of
her own dangerous sickness."

"Ronald Morelle," said Ambrose suddenly, "but it wouldn't be he."

"Who is Ronald Morelle?"

"He is the only Ronald I know.  I don't even know him.  He's a friend
of a--a friend of mine."

"Rich--where does he live?"

"In Knightsbridge somewhere."

Christina whistled.  "Glory be!  Evie's shop is in Knightsbridge!"

At eleven o'clock that night Evie Colebrook came into the room, and,
as she stooped over the bed to kiss her sister, Christina saw
something.

"You've been crying, Evie."

Evie turned away quickly and began to unfasten her skirt.  "I--I
twisted my ankle--slipped off the sidewalk--I was a baby to cry!"

Christina watched her as she undressed rapidly.  "You haven't said
your prayers, Evie."

"Damn my prayers!"  There was a little choke at the end.  "Put out
the light, Christina, I'm awfully tired."

Christina reached up for the dangling chain that Ambrose Sault had
fixed to the lamp, but she did not immediately pull it.  "Mr. Sault
was talking about people he knew tonight," she said carelessly.
"Have you ever heard of a man called Ronald Morelle?"  There was no
answer, then.

"Good-night, Christina."

Christina pulled the chain and the light went out.




V

Beryl Merville told herself, at least once a day, that the average
girl did not give two thoughts about the source of her father's
income.  In her case, there was less reason why she should trouble
her head.

Dr. Merville had retired from practice four years before.  In his
time, he was what is loosely described as "a fashionable physician,"
and certainly was regarded as one of the first authorities of cardiac
diseases in the country.  His practice, as a consultant, was an
extensive one, and his fees were exceptionally high, even for a
fashionable physician.  When he retired he was indubitably a rich
man.  He sold his house in Devonshire Street and bought a more
pretentious home in Park Place, but--the zest for speculation,
repressed during the time he was following his profession, had
occupied the hours of leisure which retirement brought to him.  An
active man, well under sixty, the emptiness of his days, after he had
turned over his work, filled him with dismay.  He had broken
violently from the routine of twenty-five years and found time the
heaviest of the burdens he had ever carried.  He tried to find
interests and failed.  He was under an agreement to the doctor who
had purchased his practice not to return to his profession, or he
would have been back in Devonshire Street a month after he had left.
He bought a few thoroughbreds and sent them to a trainer, but he had
no love for the turf and, although he won a few respectable stakes,
he quitted the game at the end of the first season.

Then he tried the stock market, made a few thousands in oil and grew
more interested.  A rubber speculation hurt him, but not so much that
his enthusiasm was damped or his bank balance was seriously affected.
He followed this loss with what might have been a disastrous
investment in South African Mines.  Then, at a nerve-racking moment,
came Steppe, who held up the market and let out Merville, bruised and
shaken, but not ruinously so.  Here might have ended the speculative
career of Dr. Merville, had he not been under an obligation to the
South African.  Within a month of their meeting, the doctor's name
appeared on the prospectus of one of Steppe's companies--a mild and
unromantic cold storage flotation which was a success in every sense.
Merville had many friends in society; people who might look askance
at the name of Jan Steppe, and be disturbed by the recollection of
certain other companies which that gentleman had floated, accepted
Dr. Merville's directorship as evidence of the company's stability
and financial soundness.  The issue was over-subscribed and paid a
dividend from the first year.

This object lesson was not lost upon the big man.  He followed the
promotion with another.  The East Rand Consolidated Deep was floated
for three-quarters of a million.  Applications came in for two
millions.  Dr. Merville was chairman of the board.  Even Jan Steppe
was surprised.  Large as was the circle of Merville's acquaintances,
neither his personal popularity nor his standing as a financial
authority could account for this overwhelming success.  Merville
himself discounted his own influence, not realizing that in the
twenty-five years of professional life, he had built up a national
reputation.  His name had been a household word since his treatment
of a foreign royalty whose case had been regarded by native
physicians as hopeless.  This may not have been a complete
explanation; probably the fact that the stock in the cold storage
company stood at a premium had something to do with the rush for
Consolidated Deeps.

The new company did not pay dividends, but long before the first was
due, Mr. Steppe had launched two others.  On paper Dr. Merville made
a fortune; actually, he acquired heavy liabilities, not the least of
which was his heavy participation in a private flotation which Mr.
Steppe, with unconscious humor, labeled: "The Investment Salvage
Syndicate."  It was a stockholding company and in the main it held
such stock as a general public declined to purchase.  There are rules
of behavior which normal people do not transgress.  A gentleman does
not search the overcoat pockets of his fellow clubmen, and confiscate
such valuables as he may find; nor does he steal into the houses of
people he does not know and remove their silver.  A corporation man
has a less rigid code.  Dr. Merville found himself consciously
assisting in the manipulation of a stock, a manipulation which could
only be intended to deprive stockholders of their legitimate rights.
There was one unpleasant moment of doubt and shame when Merville
sought to disentangle his individuality from this corporative
existence.  He tried to think singly, applying the tests which had
governed his life--he found it easier to divide his responsibility.

Somehow he felt less venal when only a fourteenth of the blame
attached to him.  This fraction represented his holding in
Consolidated Deeps.  Wealth is an effective narcotic.  Rich and
fearless men can find a melancholy pleasure in the contemplation of
their past sins.  But poverty and the danger of poverty acts as a
microphone through the medium of which the still small voice of
conscience is a savage roar.

Beryl thought he was unusually nervous when she went to find him in
his study.  He started at the sound of her voice.

"Ready--yes, dear.  What time did Steppe say?"

"Eight o'clock.  We have plenty of time, father--the car isn't here
yet.  Do you know whether Ronnie will be there?"

Dr. Merville was looking abstractedly at her; his mind, she knew, was
very far away.  "Ronnie?  I don't know.  John Maxton will be there.
I saw him today.  Steppe admires him and John is clever; he will be a
judge one of these days.  Yes--a judge."  The little grimace he made
was involuntary.

"One would think you expected to meet him in his official capacity,"
she laughed.

"Absurd of course--as to Ronnie?  How do you feel about him, Beryl?"
The maid tapped at the door to say the car had arrived.

Beryl answered: "Do you mean--I don't quite know what you do mean?"

"About the scandal.  Do you remember a man who came to see you--why
he should have come to you I don't know--with a story about his
sister?"

"East was the name.  Yes, Ronnie told me all about it.  The man is a
blackmailer and his sister was not much better.  Ronnie had shown a
kindness to the girl, he met her at some--some mission or other.
Ronnie does queer things like that--and he gave her some money to go
on a holiday.  That was all."

"Humph--ready?"

"But, daddy, don't you believe Ronnie?"  She was desperately anxious
to consolidate her own faith.

"I don't know.  Ronnie is a queer fellow--"

He was ready to go; his overcoat was over his arm and yet he
lingered.  She guessed he would say something more about Ronald
Morelle and was stiffening to defend him, but she was mistaken.

"Beryl, you are twenty-two and very beautiful.  I may be biased but I
hardly think I am.  I have seen many lovely women in my life and you
could hold your own with any of them.  Do you ever think of getting
married?"

She tried hard to control herself, but the color in her face deepened
and faded.

"I haven't thought much about it," she said.  "There are two parties
to a marriage, daddy."

"Are you fond of anybody?  I mean are you, in your heart--committed
to any one man?"

A pause, then: "No."

"I'm glad," said her father, relieved.  "Very glad--you must look for
something in a man which fellows like Ronnie Morelle can never give
to a woman--power, fortune, mental strength and stability--come
along."

She followed him to the car dumb with astonishment, but not at that
moment apprehensive.  She knew that he had been talking of Jan Steppe.




VI

Mr. Steppe had a house in Berkeley Square which he rented from its
lordly owner.  Beryl had dined there before, and it had been a
baffling experience, for in no respect did the personality of the
tenant find an opportunity of expressing itself.  The furnishings and
the color schemes of the landlord had been left as they had been
found, and since the atmosphere of the place was late Victorian, Mr.
Steppe was unconformable to his surroundings.

Beryl thought of him as a Sultan amidst samplers.

Sir John Maxton was talking to him when they were announced.  One of
the greatest advocates at the bar, Maxton was tall, slender,
esthetic.  His gentle manner had led many a confident witness into
trouble.  He had a reputation at the bar as a just and merciless man;
a master of the art of cross-examination.

"The doctor told me you were likely to be here," he said, when she
had escaped from Steppe's thunderous civilities.  "I hoped Ronnie
would have come--have you seen him lately?"

"Only for a few minutes on Monday.  I met him in the park.  I didn't
know you were a friend of his, Sir John?"  Maxton's lips curled.
Beryl wondered if he was trying to smile, or whether that twitch
indicated something uncomplimentary to Ronnie.

"I'm more than a friend--and less.  I was one of the executors of his
father's will.  Old Bennett Morelle was my first client and I suppose
I stand _in loco parentis_ to Ronnie by virtue of my executorship.  I
have not seen him for quite a year.  Somebody told me that he was
scribbling!  He always had a bent that way--it is a thousand pities
he didn't take the law seriously--an occupation would have kept him
out of mischief."

"Has Ronnie been called to the bar?" she asked in astonishment.
Maxton nodded.

"Just before the war, but he has never practiced.  I hope that the
newspaper connection will keep him busy."

"But Ronnie works very hard," she asserted stoutly.  "He has his
company work, he is a director of several and chairman of one I
believe."  Maxton looked at her with the faintest shade of amusement
in his eyes.

"Of course," he said drily, "that is an occupation."  He lowered his
voice.  "Do you mind if I am ill-bred and ask you if you have known
our host very long?"

"A few years."  He nodded.

Beryl, glancing across at her father and Steppe, saw that the doctor
was talking earnestly.  She caught Steppe's gaze and looked back to
Sir John.

"I have been fighting a case for him--rather a hopeless proposition,
but we won.  The jury was wrong, I think, in giving us a verdict.  I
can say this because the other side have entered an appeal which is
certain to succeed."

Jan Steppe must have heard the last sentence.

"Huh?  Succeed?  Yes, perhaps--it doesn't matter very much.  I had a
verdict, a disqualified winner is still a moral winner, huh, doctor?
You used to be a racing man, what do you think?"

Dinner was announced whilst the doctor was disclaiming any knowledge
of the turf or its laws.  The dinner was exquisite in its selection
and brevity.  Mr. Steppe had one special course which none of the
others shared.  He invited them and showed no regret when they
refused.  A footman brought a silver dish piled high with steaming
mealy cobs.  He took them in his hands and gnawed at the hot corn.
It was probably the only way that mealies could be eaten, she told
herself--no more inelegant an exhibition than the sword-swallowing
man[oe]uvre which followed the serving of asparagus.

"Sault?"  Mr. Steppe was wiping his fingers on his serviette.  "You
asked me once before, Beryl--where was it?  In the park.  No, I
haven't seen him.  I very seldom do.  Strange man, huh?"

The butler had attended more frequently to Dr. Merville's wine glass
than to any other of the guests.  His gloom had disappeared and he
was more like the cheerful man Beryl remembered.

"Sault is a danger and a menace to society," he said.

Steppe's brows lowered but he did not interrupt.

"At the same time he can exercise one of the most beneficent forces
that nature has ever given into the care of a human being."

"You pique my curiosity," said Maxton, interested.  "Is he psychic or
clairvoyant--from your tone one would imagine that he had some
supernatural power."

"He has," nodded Merville.  "I discovered it some time ago.  He
lodges with a woman named Colebrook in a very poor part of the town.
Mrs. Colebrook suffers from an unusual form of heart disease.  She
had a seizure one night and Sault came for me.  You will remember,
dear, when I was called out in the middle of the night--a year ago.
The moment I examined the woman, who was unconscious, and in my
opinion _in extremis_, I knew that nothing could be done.  I applied
the remedies which I had brought with me, and which I had thought,
from his description of the seizure, would be necessary, but with no
effect.  Sault was terribly upset.  The woman had two daughters, one
bed-ridden.  His grief at the thought that she would die without her
daughter seeing her, was tragic.  I think he was going upstairs to
bring the girl down, when I said casually that if I could lend the
patient strength to live for another hour, she would probably
recover.  What followed, seems to me even now as part of a fantastic
dream."

Beryl's elbow was on the table, her chin in her palm and she was
absorbed.  Maxton lay back, his arm hanging over the back of his
chair, weighing every word; Steppe, his hands clasped on the table,
his head bent, skeptical.

"Sault bent down and took the inert hands of the woman in his--just
held them.  Remember this, that she was the color of this serviette,
her lips gray.  I wondered what he was doing--I don't know now.  Only
her face went gradually pink and her eyes opened."

"How long after he took her hands?" asked Maxton.

"Less than a minute I should think.  As I say, she opened her eyes
and looked around and then she nodded very slowly.  'What do you
think of that, Dr. Merville?' she said."

"She knew you, of course?"

"She had never seen me in her life.  I learned that afterwards.
Sault dropped her hands and stood up.  He was looking ghastly.  Not a
vestige of color.  I said to him: 'Sault, what is the matter, and he
answered in a cockney whine, that was 'h'less and
ungrammatical--Sault never makes an error in that respect--'It's me
'eart, sir, I get them attacks at times--haneurism.'"

"Sault?"

Steppe's face was puckered into a grimace of incredulity.

"Go on, please, father!" urged the girl.

"What came after was even more curious.  Mrs. Colebrook got up quite
unaided, sat down in a chair before the fire and fell fast asleep.
Sault sat down, too.  I gave him some brandy and he seemed to
recover.  But he did not speak again, not even to answer my
questions.  He sat bolt upright in a wooden chair by the side of the
kitchen table--all this happened in the kitchen.  He didn't move for
a long time and then his hands began to stray along the table.  There
was a big work basket at the other side and presently his hands
reached it and he drew it toward him.  I watched him.  He took out
some garment, I think it was a night dress belonging to one of the
girls.  It was unfinished and the needle was sticking into it--he
began to sew!"

"Good God!" cried Maxton.  "Do you suggest that on the touching of
hands the two identities changed?"

"I suggest that--I assert that," said the doctor quietly, and drank
his wine.

"Rubbish!" growled Steppe.  "What did Sault say about it?"

"I will tell you.  Exactly an hour after this extraordinary
transference had been made, I saw Mrs. Colebrook going pale.  She
opened her eyes and looked at me in a puzzled way, then at the
daughter, a pretty child who had been present all the time.  'I
always 'ave these attacks, sir,' she said, 'a haneurism the doctors
call it!'"

"And Sault?"

"He was himself again, but distressingly tired and wan."

"Did he explain?"

The doctor shook his head.

"He didn't understand or remember much.  The next day out of
curiosity I called at the house and asked him if he could sew.  He
was amused.  He said that he had never used a needle in his life, his
hands were too big."

Beryl sat back with a sigh.  "It doesn't seem--human," she said.

The doctor had opened his mouth to reply when there was a crash in
the hall outside and the sound of a high, aggressive voice.  Another
second and the door was thrown violently open and the man lurched in.
He was hatless and his frock coat was covered with the coffee-colored
stains of wet mud.  His cravat was awry and the ends hung loose over
his unbuttoned waist-coat.  A stray lock of black hair hung over his
narrow forehead.  He strode into the center of the room and with legs
apart, one hand on his hip and the other caressing his long, brown
beard, he surveyed the company with a sardonic smile.

"Hail!  Thieves and brother bandits!" he said thickly.  He spoke with
a slight lisp.  "Hail!  Head devil and chief of the tribe!  Hail!
Helen--"

Steppe was on his feet, his head thrust forwards, his shoulders bent.
Maxton saw him and started.  There was something feline in that
crouching attitude.  "You drunken fool!  How dare you come here, huh!"

Mr. Moropulos snapped his fingers contemptuously.  "I come, because I
have the right," he said with drunken gravity, "who will deny the
prime minister the right of calling upon the king?" he bowed and
nearly lost his balance, recovering by the aid of a chairback.

"Go to my study, Moropulos, I will come out with you," Steppe had
gained control of himself, but the big frame was trembling with pent
rage.

"Study--bah!  Here is my study!  Hail, doctor, man of obnoxious
draughts, hail, stranger, whoever you are--where's the immaculate
Ronnie?  Flower of English chivalry and warrior of a million
flights--huh?"

He bellowed his imitation of Steppe's grunt and chuckled with
laughter.

"Now, listen, confederates, I have done with you all.  I am going to
live honest.  Why?  I will tell you--"

"Moropulos!"  Beryl turned quickly toward the door.  She knew before
she saw the stolid figure that it was Sault.  Moropulos turned too.

"Ah!  The faithful Ambrose--do you want me, Sault?"  His tone was
mild, he seemed to wilt under the steady gaze of the man in the
doorway.  Ambrose Sault beckoned and the drunken intruder shuffled
out, shamefaced, fearful.

"Quite an interesting evening," said Sir John Maxton as he closed the
car door on the Mervilles that night.




VII

Two days later Sir John Maxton made an unexpected call upon the
doctor and it occurred to him that he might also have made an
unwelcome appearance; for he interrupted a tête-à-tête.

"I thought I should find the doctor in.  Well, Ronnie, how are you
after all these years?"

Ronnie was relieved to see him--that was the impression which the
lawyer received.  And Beryl, although she was her sweet, equable
self, would gladly have excused his presence.  Maxton had an idea
that he had surprised them in the midst of a quarrel.  The girl was
flushed and her eyes were unusually bright.  Ronnie's countenance was
clouded with gloom.  Sir John was sensitive to atmosphere.

"No, I really won't stay, I wanted to have a chat with the doctor
about the extraordinary story he told us the other night.  I was
dining with the Lord Chief and some other judges last night and,
without mentioning names, of course, I repeated the story.  They were
remarkably interested, Berham says that he had heard of such a case--"

"What is all this about?" asked Ronnie curiously.  "You didn't tell
me anything, Beryl.  Who, what and where is the 'case'?"

"Mr. Sault," she said shortly.

"Oh, Sault!  He is an extraordinary fellow--I must meet him.  They
say that he cannot read or write."

"Is that a fact?"  Sir John Maxton looked at the girl.

"Yes--I believe so.  Ronnie on the contrary is in the way of becoming
a famous writer, Sir John."

"So I hear."  He wondered why she had so deliberately and so abruptly
brought the conversation into another channel.

Ronald Morelle, for his part, was not inclined to let the subject
drift.  "It is quaint how that coon intrigues you all," he said, "oh,
yes, he is colored.  You haven't seen him, John, or you wouldn't ask
that question."

"I have seen him; it did not appear to me that he was colored--he has
a striking face."

"At any rate, he seems to have struck you and Beryl all of a heap,"
said Ronnie smiling.  "Really I must meet him.  Are you going, Sir
John?"  Maxton was taking his farewell of the girl.  "Because if you
are, I'll walk a little way with you.  'Bye, Beryl."

"Goodbye, Ronnie," she said quietly.

Once in the street Maxton asked: "What is the matter with you and
Beryl?"

"Nothing--Beryl is just a little grandmotherly.  She went to the
theatre last night with some people and she spotted me in a box."

"I see," said Sir John drily, "and of course you were not alone in
the box."

"Why on earth should I be?" demanded the other.  "Beryl is really
unreasonable.  She swore that my friend was a girl she had seen me
with in the park."

"And who was it--is that a discreet question?"

"No it isn't," said Ronnie instantly.  "I don't think one ought to
chuck names about--it is most dishonorable and caddish.  The lady was
a very great friend of mine."

"Then I probably know her," said Sir John wilfully dense.  "I know
most of the people in your set, and I cannot imagine that you would
be scoundrel enough to escort the kind of girl you couldn't introduce
to me or Beryl or any other of your friends."

"I give you my word of honor," Ronnie was earnest, "that the lady was
not only presentable, but is known personally to you.  The fact is,
that she had a row with her fiancé, a man I know very well, a
Coldstreamer, and I was doing no more than trying to reconcile
them--bring them together you understand.  She was dreadfully
depressed, and I got a box at the theatre with the idea of cheering
her up.  My efforts," he added virtuously, "were successful.  Beryl
said that it was a girl--the daughter of a dear friend of mine, she
had seen me talking with in the park."

"What dear friend of yours was this?"

"I don't think you've met him," parried Ronnie.

"Did she have trouble with her fiancé, too?" asked Sir John
innocently.  "Really, Ronnie, you are coming out strong as a
disinterested friend of distressed virgins!  If I may employ the
imagery and language of an American burglar whom I recently
defended--Sir Galahad has nothing on you!"

"You don't believe me, John," said Ronnie injured.

"Of course I cannot believe you.  I am not a child.  You had some
girl with you, some 'pick up', innocent or guilty, God knows.  I will
assume her innocence.  The sophisticated have no appeal for you.
There was a girl named East--a chorus girl, if I remember rightly--"

"If you're going to talk about that disgraceful attempt to blackmail
me, I'm finished," said Ronnie resigned.

"Why didn't you charge her and her brother with blackmail?  They came
to me--"

"Good lord, did they?  I'll break that infernal blackguard's neck!"

"When will you meet him?"  Ronnie did not answer.

"They came to me and I knew that the story was true.  The brother, of
course, _is_ a blackmailer.  He is levying blackmail now and you are
paying him--don't argue, Ronnie, of course you are paying him.  You
said just now that you would break his neck, which meant to me that
you see him frequently--when he comes to draw his blood money.  If it
were a case of blackmail, why did you not prosecute?  The mere threat
of the prosecution would have been sufficient to have sent him to
ground--it struck me that the girl was acting under the coercion of
her brother, and I do not think you would have had any trouble from
her.  Ronnie, you are rotten."  He said this as he stopped at the
corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly, and Ronnie smiled nervously.

"Oh come now, John, that is rather a strong expression."

"Rotten," repeated the lawyer.  He screwed a monocle in his eye and
surveyed his companion dispassionately.  "Chorus girls--shop
girls--the mechanics of joy who serve Madame Ritti--that made you
jump, eh?  I know quite a lot about you.  They are your life.  And
God gave you splendid gifts and the love of the sweetest, dearest
girl in this land."

"Who is this?" asked the young man slowly.

"Beryl.  You do not need to be told that.  Search the ranks of your
light women for her beauty, Ronnie."

A girl passed them, a wisp of a girl on the borderline of womanhood.
She carried a little bag and was hurrying home from the store where
she was employed.  Even as he listened to the admonition of his
companion, Ronnie caught her eyes and smiled into them--she paused
and looked round once--he was still watching her.

"I am afraid I must leave you, John, I've a lot of work to do, and
you are quite mistaken as to my character--and Beryl."  He left the
lawyer abruptly and walked toward the gates of the park where the
girl had stopped, ostensibly to tie a shoe-lace.

Sir John saw her pass leisurely into the park; a few seconds later
Ronnie had followed.  His time was his own, for Evie Colebrook was
working that evening, the annual stocktaking was in progress, as she
had told him when they were at the theatre on the previous night.

"Rotten!" repeated Maxton, and stalked gloomily to his club.




VIII

Mr. Ronald Morelle's flat was on the third floor of a block that
faced busy Knightsbridge.  His library was a large and airy room at
the back and from the open casements commanded an uninterrupted view
of the park.  It was a pleasant room with its rows of bookshelves and
its chintzes.  The silver fireplace and the rich Persian rugs which
covered the parquet were the only suggestions of luxury.  There were
one or two pictures which François had an order to remove when
certain visitors were expected.  The rest were decent reproductions
with the exception of a large oil painting above the mantelpiece.  It
was a St. Anthony and was attributed to Titiano Vecellio.  The
austere saint loomed darkly from a sombre background and was
represented as an effeminate youth; the veining of the neck and
shoulders was characteristically Titian, so too was the inclination
of a marble column which showed faintly in the picture.  Titiano's
inability to draw a true vertical line is well known and upon this
column, more than upon other evidence, the experts accepted the
picture as an early example of the fortunate painter's work.

Ronnie was indifferent as to the authenticity of the picture.  The
dawning carnality on Anthony's lean face, the misty shape of the
temptress--Titian or his disciple had reduced to visibility the
doubt, the gloating and the very thoughts of the Saint.

A black oak table stood in the center of the room and a deep Medici
writing chair was placed opposite the black blotting-pad.  It pleased
Ronnie to imitate those ministers of state who employed this color to
thwart curious-minded servants who, with the aid of a mirror, might
discover the gist of outward correspondence.

It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie's key in the lock
sent his sleepy servant into the lobby.  Ronnie stood in the hall
tenderly stripping his gloves.  "Has anybody been?"

"No, m'sieur."

"Letters?"

"Only one, m'sieur.  An account."

He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in.  He switched on the
light of his desk lamp and sat down.  "I have not been out all the
evening, François."

"No, m'sieur."

"I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, do you
understand?"

"Perfectly, m'sieur."

"Have we any iodine--look for it, damn you, don't gape!"

François hurried out to inspect the contents of the bathroom locker,
where were stored such first aid remedies as were kept in the flat.
Ronnie looked at his hand and pulled back the cuff of his coat; three
ugly red scratches ran from the wrist to the base of the middle
fingers.  His lips pursed angrily.  "Little beast," he said.  "Well?"

"There is a bottle--would m'sieur like a bandage?"

"It is not necessary--have you a cat in the flat?--no, well get one
tomorrow.  You need not keep it permanently.  I don't think there
will be any trouble.  Bring me a hand-mirror from my
dressing-table--hurry."

He lifted the shade from the table lamp and, in the mirror, examined
his face carefully.  His right cheek was red, he imagined
finger-marks, but the fine skin had not been torn.

"I have had a quarrel with a lady, François.  A common girl--I do not
think she will make any further trouble, but if she does--she does
not know me anyway."

Ronald's love-making had ended unpleasantly, and he had left the dark
aisles of the park in a hurry, before the scream of a frightened girl
had brought the police to the spot.

"I was expecting m'sieur to telephone me saying that I might go
home," said François.  He lodged in Kensington, and sometimes it was
convenient for Ronnie, that he should go home early.  Two women came
in the morning to clean the flat and he usually arrived in time to
carry in his master's breakfast from the restaurant attached to the
building.

"No, I didn't telephone.  Take this glass back and bring me the
evening newspapers.  That is all.  You can clear out."

When the front door closed upon his valet, Ronnie got up and, walking
to the window, pulled aside the curtains.  The casement was open and
he sat down on the padded window-seat, looking out into the darkness.
He was not thinking of his night's adventure, being something of a
philosopher.  The sordidness and the vulgarity of it, would not
distress him in any circumstances.  He was thinking of Beryl and what
John Maxton had said.  He knew that she liked him, but he had made no
special effort to foster her affection or to evolve from their
relationship one more intimate.  By his code, she was taboo;
lovemaking with Beryl could only lead to marriage, and matrimony was
outside of his precarious plans.  It pleased him to ponder upon
Beryl--perhaps she was in love with him.  He had not considered the
possibility before.  That women only differed by the hats they wore
was a working rule of his; but it was strange that the influence he
exercised was common to girls so widely separated by birth, education
and taste as Beryl was from Evie Colebrook--and others.

Self-disparagement was the last weakness to be expected in Ronald
Morelle, and yet, it was true to say that he had restricted his
hunting for so long to one variety of game, that he doubted his
ability to follow another.

His father had been an enthusiastic hawker, one of the remaining few
who followed the sport of kings, and Ronnie invariably thought of his
adventuring in terms of falconry.  He was a hawk, enseamed, a hawk
that swung on its rigid sails, waiting on until the quarry was
sprung.  Sometimes the quarry was not taken without talons to rend
and tear at the embarrassed falcon--he felt the wounds on his hand
gingerly.  But a trained hawk respects the domestic fowl, even the
folk of the dovecot may coo at peace whilst he waits on in the sky.
Beryl--?  She was certainly lovely.  Her figure was delectable.  And
her mouth, red and full--a Rossetti woman should not have such lips.
Was it Rossetti who painted those delicately featured women?  He got
up and found a big portfolio filled with prints.  Yes, it was
Rossetti, but Beryl's figure was incomparably more delicious than any
woman's that the painter had drawn.  He came back to the window,
staring out into the night, until, in the gray of dawn, the outline
of trees emerged from the void.  Then he went to bed and to sleep.
He did not move for five hours and then he woke with a horrible sense
of desolation.  He blinked round the room and at that instant the
clock of a church began to strike--the quarters sounded--a pause.

"Toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll."  Nine
o'clock!  With a scream of fear he leaped out of bed, sweating,
panic-stricken, forlorn.  Nine o'clock!  "No--no--Christ--no!"

François, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in.
"M'sieur," he gasped.

Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his hands.

"A nightmare, François--a nightmare--get out, blast you!"  But he had
had no nightmare, could recall nothing of dreams, though he strove
all day, his head throbbing.  Only he knew that to hear nine o'clock
striking had seemed very dreadful.




IX

"I saw your friend Ronald Morelle today," said Moropulos, sending a
writhing ring of smoke to the ceiling.  Sprawling on a big morris
chair, his slippered feet resting on the edge of a fender, he watched
the circle break against the ceiling.  A pair of stained gray flannel
trousers, a silk shirt and a velvet coat that had once been a vivid
green; these and an immense green silk cravat, the color of which
showed through his beard, constituted his usual morning negligee.

Ambrose Sault, busy with the body of an unfinished safe, which in the
rough had come from the maker's hands that morning, released the
pressure of his acetylene lamp and removed his goggles before he
replied.

He was working in shirt and trousers, and his sleeves were rolled up,
displaying the rope-like muscles of his arm.  He looked across to his
indolent companion and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Mr. Ronald Morelle is neither a friend nor an acquaintance,
Moropulos.  I don't think I have ever seen him.  I have heard of him."

"You haven't missed much by not knowing him," said Moropulos, "but
he's a good-looking fellow."

He flicked the ash of his cigarette on to the tiled hearth.  "Steppe
is still annoyed with me."  Sault smiled to himself.

"You think he is justified?  Perhaps.  I was terribly drunk, but I
was happy.  Some day, my dear brother, I shall get so drunk that even
you will not hold me.  I move towards my apotheosis of intoxication
certainly and surely.  Then I will be irresistible and I shall have
no fear of those brute arms of yours."  He sucked at the cigarette
without speaking for a long time.  Sault went back to his work.

"I have often wondered!" said Moropulos at last.

"What?"

"Whether it would have been better if I had followed the advice of my
head man that morning I pulled you aboard the sloop.  You remember
Bob the Kanaka boy?  He wanted to knock you on the head and drop you
overboard; you were too dangerous, he said.  If a government boat had
picked us up and you had been found on board as well as--certain
other illicit properties, I should have had a double charge against
me.  I said 'no' because I was sorry for you."

"Because you were afraid of me," said Sault calmly, "I knew you were
afraid when I looked into your eyes.  Why do you speak of the islands
now--we haven't talked about the Pacific since I left the boat."

"I've been thinking about you," confessed Moropulos with a quick sly
glance at the man.  "Do you realize how--not 'curious'--what is the
word?"

"Incurious!" suggested Sault, and Moropulos looked at him with
reluctant admiration.

"You are an extraordinary _hombre_, Sault.  Merville says you have
the _vocabulaire_--that is English or something like it--of an
educated man.  But to return--do you realize how incurious I am?  For
example, I have never once asked you, in all our years of knowing one
another, why you killed that man?"

"Which man?"

Moropulos laughed softly.  "Butcher!  Have you killed so many?  I
refer to the victim for whose destruction the French government sent
you to New Caledonia."

Sault stood leaning his back against the table his eyes fixed on the
floor.  "He was a bad man," he said simply, "I tried to find another
way of--stopping him, but he was clever and he had powerful friends,
who were government officials.  So I killed him.  He hired two men to
wait for me one night.  I was staying at a little hotel on the Plassy
Road.  They tried to beat me because I had reported this man.  Then I
knew that the only thing I could do was to kill him.  I should do it
again."

Moropulos surveyed him from under his lowered brows.  "You were lucky
to escape 'the widow', my friend," he said, but Ambrose shook his
head.

"Nobody was executed in those days; capital punishment had not been
abolished, but the Senate refused to vote the executioner his salary.
It had the same effect.  I was lucky to go to New Caledonia.  Cayenne
is worse."

"How long did you serve?"

"Eight years and seven months," was the reply.

Moropulos made a little grimace.  "I would sooner die," he said and
lit another cigarette.  Deep in thought he smoked until Ambrose made
a move to pick up his Crooke's glasses.

"Don't work.  I hate to see you--and hate worse to hear you.  What do
you think of Morelle?"

"I don't know him; I have heard about him.  He is not a good man."

"What is a good man?" Moropulos demanded contemptuously.  "He is a
lover of ladies, who isn't?  He is a cur too.  Steppe walks on him.
He is scared of Steppe but then everybody is, except you and I."
Ambrose smiled.

"Well, perhaps I am--he is such a gorilla.  But you are not."

"Why should I be?  I am stronger than he."

Moropulos looked at the man's bare arms.  "Yes--I suppose it comes
down to that.  The basis of all fear, is physical.  When will the
safe be finished?"

"In a week.  I am assembling the lock at home.  I shall make it work
to five letters.  The only word I can spell.  I shouldn't have known
that, but I heard a man spell it once--on the ship that brought me
home.  He was a steerage passenger and he used to take his little
child on the deck when it was fine, and the little one used to read
Scripture stories to him.  When she came to a hard word, he spelled
it.  I heard one word and never forgot it."

"I'll be glad when the thing is finished," the Greek meditated.  "We
have a whole lot of papers that we never want to see the light of
day, Steppe and I.  We could destroy them, but they may be useful,
correspondence that it isn't safe to keep and it isn't wise to burn.
You are an ingenious devil!"

In the Paddington directory, against "Moropulos, 49 Junction
Terrace," were the words, "mining engineer."  It was a courtesy
status, for he had neither mined nor engineered.  Probably the people
of Junction Terrace were too occupied with their own strenuous
affairs to read the directory.  They knew him as one who at irregular
periods was brought home in the middle of the night singing noisily
in a strange language.  Cicero's oration was Greek to Cassius; the
melodious gibberish of Mr. Moropulos was Greek to Junction Terrace,
though they were not aware of the fact.  No. 49 was a gaunt, damp
house with a mottled face, for the stucco had peeled in patches and
had never been renewed.  Moropulos bought it at a bargain price and
made no contingency allowance for delapidations.  The windows of the
upper floors were dingy and unwashed.  The owner argued that as he
did not occupy the rooms above, it would be wicked waste of money to
clean the windows.  Similarly he dispensed with carpets in the hall
and on the stairs.

His week-ends he spent in more pleasing surroundings, for he had a
cottage on the borders of Hampshire where he kept hens and grew
cabbage-roses and on Sundays loafed in his garden, generally in his
pajamas, to the scandal of the neighborhood.  He had a whimsical turn
of mind and named his cottage, "The Parthenon", and supported this
conceit by decorating his arcadian groves with plaster reproductions
of the great figures of mythology, such figures as Phidias and
Polycletus and Praxiteles chiselled.  He added to this a wooden
pronaos which the local builder misguidedly surmised was intended for
the entrance to a new cinema.  When they discovered that the erection
had no other purpose than to remind Moropulos of departed Hellenic
splendors, the grief of the villagers was pathetic.

Here he was kept, reluctantly, tidy.  He owned a small American car
which supplied him the transportation he required, and made his
country home accessible.  It was Friday, the day he usually left
town, but he had lingered on, hoping to see some tangible progress in
the construction of the safe.

"You never seem to get any further," he complained.  "You have been
fiddling with that noisy lamp for two hours, and, so far as I can
see, you've done nothing.  How long will it be before anything
happens?" and then before Sault could reply he went on: "Why don't
you come to my little Athens, Sault?  You prefer to stay in town.
And you are a man of brains!  Have you a girl here, eh?"

"No."

"Gee!  What a time that fellow Ronnie must have!  But they will catch
him some day--a mad father or a lunatic fiancé, and ping!  There will
be Ronnie Morelle's brains on the floor, and the advocates pleading
the unwritten law!"

"You seem to know a lot about him?"

Moropulos ran his fingers through his beard and grinned at the
ceiling.  "Yes--I can't know too much.  We shall have trouble with
him.  Steppe laughs at the idea.  He has him bound to his heel--is
that the expression, no?  Well, he has him like that!  But how can
you bind a liar or chain an eel?  His very cowardice is a danger."

"What have you to be afraid of?" asked Sault.  "So far as I can make
out, you are carrying on an honest business.  It must be, or the
doctor wouldn't be in it."  His tone was sharp and challenging.
Moropulos had sufficient _nous_ not to accept that kind of challenge.

"I can understand that you have papers that you wish to keep in such
a way that nobody but yourselves can get at them.  All businesses
have their secrets."

"Quite so," agreed the Greek and yawned.

"Ronnie will pay," he said, "but I am anxious that I should not be
asked to contribute to the bill.  I have had a great deal of
amusement watching him.  The other night I was in the park.  I go
there because he goes.  I know the paths he uses.  And there came
with him a most pretty young lady.  She did not know him."

"You guessed that?"

"I know, because later, when she complained, she did not know his
name.  Ronnie!" he mused.  "Now I tell you what I will undertake to
do.  I will make a list, accurate and precise, of all his love
affairs.  It will be well to know these, because there may come a day
when it will be good to flourish a weapon in this young man's face.
Such men marry rich women."

Sault was working and only muttered his reply.  He was not then
interested in Ronnie Morelle.




X

He stayed on in the house long after Moropulos had dragged himself to
his room and had dressed for the journey.  So absorbed was he in his
task that the Greek left without his noticing.  At seven o'clock he
finished, put away his tools in a cupboard, threw a cloth over the
safe, and went out, locking the door behind him.

Both Steppe and Moropulos had urged him to live in the house, but
though he had few predilections that were not amenable to the
necessities of his friends, Sault was firm on this point.  He
preferred the liberty which his lodgings gave him.  Possibly he
foresaw the difficulties which might arise if he lived entirely with
the Greek.  Moropulos had a vicious and an uncertain tongue; was
tetchy on some points, grotesquely so, on the question of Greek
decadence, although he had lived so long away from his native country
that English was almost his mother tongue.  Sault could be tactful,
but he had a passion for truth, and the two qualities are often
incompatible.

A bus carried him to the end of the street where he lodged, and he
stopped at a store on the corner and bought a box of biscuits for
Christina.  She was secretary and reader to him, and he repaid her
services with a library subscription and such delicacies as she asked
him to get for her.  The subscription was a godsend to the girl, and
augmented, as it was, by an occasional volume which Evie was allowed
to bring from the store library by virtue of her employment, her days
were brightened and her dreams took a wider range than ever.  The
driving force of learning is imagination.  By imagination was
Christina educated.

Evie sometimes said that she did not understand one half of the words
that Christina used.  To Mrs. Colebrook her daughter was an insoluble
enigma.  She associated education with brain fever and ideas above
your station, and whilst she was secretly proud of the invalid's
learning, she regarded Christina's spinal trouble as being partly
responsible for the abnormality.  Mrs. Colebrook believed in dreams
and premonitions and the sinister significance of broken picture
wires.  It was part of her creed that people who are not long for
this world possess supernatural accomplishments.  Therefore she eyed
Christina's books askance, and looked upon the extra library
subscription as being a wild flight in the face of Providence.  She
expressed that view privately to Ambrose Sault.

"You have come at a propitious moment, Sault Effendi," said Christina
solemnly as he came in.  "I have just been taking my last look at the
silvery Bosphorus.  My husband, taking offense at a kiss I threw to
the handsome young sultan as he rose beneath my latticed window, has
decreed that tonight I am to be tied in a sack and thrown into the
dark waters!"

"Good gracious," said Ambrose.  "You have been in trouble today,
Christina."

"Not very much.  The journey was a lovely one.  We went by way of
Bergen--and thank you ever so much for that old Bradshaw you got for
me.  It was just the thing I wanted."

"Mr. Moropulos kindly gave it to me--yes--Bergen?"

"And then to Petrograd--the Czars were there, poor people--and then
to Odessa, and down the Black Sea in--oh, I don't know.  It was a
silly journey today, Ambrose--I wasn't in the heart for a holiday."

"Is your back any worse?"

She shook her head.  "No--it seems better.  I nearly let myself dream
about getting well.  Do you think that other idea is possible?  We
can borrow a spinal carriage from the Institute but mother hasn't
much time, and besides, I couldn't get down those narrow stairs
without a lot of help.  Yes--yes, yes!  I know it is possible now.
But the chariot, dear Ambrose?"

"I've got it!" he chuckled at her astonishment, "it will come
tomorrow.  It is rather like a motor-car for I have to find a garage
for it.  In this tiny house there is no room.  But I got it--no, it
didn't cost me a great deal.  Dr. Merville told me where I could get
one cheap.  I put new tires on and the springs are grand.  Christina,
you will be--don't cry, Christina, please--you make me feel
terrible!"  His agitation had the effect of calming her.

"There must be something in this room that makes people weep," she
gulped.  "Ambrose--Evie is just worrying me to death."

"What is wrong?"

She shook her red head helplessly.  "I don't know.  She is
changed--she is old.  She's such a kid, too--such a kid!  If that man
hurts her," the knuckles of her clenched hand showed bone-white
through the skin, "I'll ask you to do what you did for mother,
Ambrose, give me strength for an hour--" her voice sank to a husky
whisper, "and I'll kill him--kill him--"

Sault sat locking and unlocking his fingers, his eyes vacant.  "She
will not be hurt.  I wish I were sure it was Ronald Morelle.  Steppe
has only to lift his finger--"

They heard the sound of Mrs. Colebrook's heavy feet on the stairs and
Christina wondered why she was coming up.  She had never interrupted
their little talks before.

"Somebody to see you, Christina, and I'm sure it is too kind of you,
miss, and please thank the doctor.  I'll never be grateful enough for
what he did--"

Ambrose Sault got up slowly to his feet as Beryl came into the room.

"I wonder if you really mind my coming--I am Beryl Merville."

"It is very good of you, Miss Merville," said Christina primly.  She
was ready to dislike her visitor; she hated the unknown people who
called upon her, especially the people who brought jelly and fruit
and last year's magazines.  Their touching faith in the virtues of
calves'-foot and fruit as a panacea for human ills, their automatic
cheerfulness and mechanical good-humor, drove her wild.  The church
and its women had given up Christina ever since she had asked, in
answer to the inevitable question: "Yes, there are some things I
want; I'd like a box of perfumed cigarettes, some marron glace and a
good English translation of 'Liaisons Dangereux'."

She loathed marron glace and scented tobacco was an abomination.  Her
chief regret was that the shocked inquirer had never heard of
"Liaisons Dangereux".  Christina only knew of its existence from a
reference in a literary weekly which came her way.

Beryl sensed the hidden antagonism and the cause.  "I really haven't
come in a district visitor spirit," she said, "I'm not frightfully
sorry for you and I haven't brought you oranges--"

"Grapes," corrected Christina.  "They give you appendicitis--mother
read that on the back page of 'Health Hints'.  Sit down, Miss
Merville.  This is Mr. Sault."  She nodded to Ambrose.

"Mr. Sault and I are old acquaintances," she said.  She did not look
at him.  "I have to explain why I came at all.  I know that you are
not particularly enthusiastic about stray visitors--nobody is.  But
my father was talking about you at lunch today.  He has never seen
you, but Mr. Sault has spoken about you and, of course, he does know
your mother.  And father said: 'Why don't you go along and see her,
Beryl?'  I said, 'She would probably be very annoyed--but I'll take
her that new long wordy novel that is so popular.  I'm sure she'll
hate it as much as I."

"If it is 'Let the World Go', I'm certain I shall," said Christina
promptly, "but I'd love to read it.  Let us sneer together."  Beryl
laughed and produced the book.

It seemed an appropriate moment for Ambrose to retire and he went out
of the room quietly; he thought that neither of the girls saw him go,
but he was mistaken.  Christina Colebrook was sensitive to his every
movement, and Beryl had really come to the house to see him.

On her way home she tried to arraign herself before the bar of
intelligence, but it was not until she was alone in her room that
night that she set forth the stark facts of her folly.  She loved
Ronald Morelle, loved him with an intensity which frightened her;
loved him, although he was, according to all standards by which men
are judged, despicable.  He was a coward, a liar, a slave to his
baser appetites.  She had no doubt in her mind, when she faced the
truth, that the stories which had been told of him were true.  The
East girl--the pretty parlormaid who had begun an action against him.

And yet there was something infinitely pathetic about Ronald Morelle,
something that made her heart go out to him.  Or was that a case of
self-deception too?  Was it not the beautiful animal she loved, the
sleek, lithe tiger--alive and vital and remorseless?  To all that was
brain and spirit in her, he was loathsome.  There were periods when
she hated him and was bitterly contemptuous of herself.  And in these
periods came the soft voice of Ambrose Sault, whispering,
insinuating.  That was lunacy, too.  He was old enough to be her
father; was an illiterate workman, an ex-convict, a murderer; when
her father had told her he had killed a man she was neither shocked
nor surprised.  She had guessed, from his brief reference to New
Caledonia, that he had lived on that island under duress.  He must
have been convicted of some great crime; she could not imagine him in
any mean or petty rôle.  A coarse-handed workman, shabby of
attire--it was madness to dream and dream of him as she did.  And
dreams, so Freud had said, were the expressions of wishes
unfulfilled.  What did she wish?  She was prepared to answer the
question frankly if any answer could be framed.  But she had no
ultimate wish.  Her dreams of Ambrose Sault were unfinishable.  Their
ends ran into unfathomable darkness.

"I wonder if he is very fond of that red-haired girl?" she asked her
mirror.  Contemplating such a possibility she experienced a pang of
jealousy and hated herself for it.

Jan Steppe came back from Paris on the eve of her birthday.  He
called at the house the next morning, before she was down, and
interviewed Dr. Merville; when Beryl went in to breakfast, two little
packages lay on her plate.  The first was a diamond shawl pin.

"You are a dear, daddy!"  She went round the table and kissed him.
"It is beautiful and I wanted one badly."

She hurried back to her place.  Perhaps Ronnie had remembered--?

She picked up the card that was enclosed and read it.  "Mr. Steppe?"

Her father shot a quick glance at her.  "Yes--bought it in Paris.  He
came in person to present it, but left when he found that you were
not down--rather pretty."  This was an inadequate description of the
beautiful plaque that flashed and glittered from its velvet bed.

"It is lovely," she said, but without warmth.  "Ought I accept--it is
a very expensive present!"

"Why not?  Steppe is a good friend of ours; besides, he likes you,"
said the doctor, not looking up from his plate.  "He would be
terribly hurt if you didn't take it--in fact, you cannot very well
refuse."

She ran through her letters.  There was a note from Ronnie, an
invitation to a first night.  He said nothing about her birthday.

"Oh, by the way, some flowers came.  I told Dean to put them in your
room.  I have been puzzling my head to remember when I told him the
date of your birthday.  I suppose I must have done so, and, of
course, he has the most colossal memory."

"Who, father?"

"Sault.  He must have got up very early and gone to the market to get
them.  Very decent of him."

She went out of the room with an excuse and found her maid in the
pantry.  She had filled a big bowl with the roses.  There were so
many that only room for half of them had been found.

"The others I will put in the doctor's room, Miss," said the maid.

"Put them all in my room, every one of them," demanded Beryl.

She selected three and fastened them in her belt before she went back
to the breakfast room.  The doctor laughed.

"I've never seen you wearing flowers before--Sault would be awfully
pleased."

This she knew.  That was why she wore them.




XI

Evie Colebrook came home at an unusually early hour and the girl on
the bed looked up in surprise.

"I heard mother talking to somebody, but I had no idea it was you,
Evie.  What is the matter--has your swain another engagement?"

"My swain, as you call him, is working tonight," said Evie, "and it
is so hot that I thought I would come home and get into my pajamas."

"Mother has been talking about your eccentric tastes, with particular
reference to pajamas," said Christina.  "She thinks that pajamas are
indelicate.  In her young days girls weren't supposed to have legs."

"Father wore pajamas."

"Father also drank.  Mother thinks that the pajamas had something to
do with it.  She also thinks that book reading was a contributary
cause."

"What terrible jaw-breaking words you use, Christina.  Father did
read a lot, didn't he?"

"Father was a student.  He studied, amongst other things, race
horses.  Do you know who father was?"  Evie stared at her expectantly.

"He was a carpenter, wasn't he?"

"He was the youngest son of the youngest son of a lord.  Take that
look off your face, Evie; there is no possibility of our being the
rightful heiresses of the old Hall.  But it is true; he had a coat of
arms."

"Then why did he marry mother?"

"Why do people marry anybody?" demanded Christina.  "Why did
grandfather marry grandmother?  Besides, why shouldn't he have
married mother?  He was only a cabinet maker when he met her.  She
has told me so.  And his father was a parson, and his mother the
Honorable Mrs. Colebrook, the daughter of Lord Fanshelm.  There is
blue blood in your veins, Evie."

"But really, Christina," Evie's voice was eager and her eyes bright,
"you are not fooling; is it true?  It makes such an awful
difference--"

Christina groaned.  "My God, what have I said?" she asked
dramatically.

"But really, Christina?"

"You are related so distantly to nobility that you can hardly see it
without a telescope," said Christina, "I thought you knew.  Mother
used always to be talking about it at one time.  My dear, what
difference does it make?"

Evie was silent.

"A man doesn't love a girl any more because she has a fifth cousin in
the House of Lords; he doesn't love her any less because her mother
takes in laundry, and if her lowly origin stands in the way of his
marriage, and he finds that really she is the great grandaughter of a
princess, he cannot obliterate her intermediate relations."

"What's 'intermediate'?"

"Well, mother and father, and the parson who got into trouble through
drinking, and his wife who ran away with a groom."

Evie drew a long sigh.

"Where is your swain?" she asked.  "I don't like that word 'swain,'
it sounds so much like 'swine'."

"I hope you will never see the resemblance any clearer," said
Christina.  "My swain is working, too.  I shouldn't take off that
petticoat, if I were you, Evie; he may come in and you can see your
knickers through that dressing-gown."

"Christina!"

"I hate mentioning knickers to a pure-minded girl," said Christina,
fanning herself with a paper, "but sisters have no secrets from one
another.  Ambrose, if that is who you mean, is very busy these days."

"Do you call him Ambrose to his face?" asked Evie curiously, and her
sister snorted.

"Would you call Julius Cæsar 'Bill' or 'Juley' to his face; of course
not.  But I can't think of him as Ambrose Sault, Esquire, can I?"

"I don't understand him," said Evie.  "He seems so dull and quiet."

"I'll get him to jazz with you the next time you're home early," said
Christina sardonically.

"Don't be so silly.  Naturally he isn't very lively being so old."

"Old!  He is lively enough to carry me downstairs as though I were a
pillow and wheel me for hours at a time in that glorious chariot he
got for me!  And he is old enough--but what is the good of talking to
you, Evie?"

Presently her irritation passed and she laughed.  "Tell me the news
of the great world, Evie; what startling happenings have there been
in Knightsbridge?"

"I can tell you something about Mr. Sault you don't know," Evie was
piqued into saying.  "He has been in prison."  Christina turned on
her side with a wince of pain.

"Say that again."

"He has been in prison."  A long pause.

"I hoped he had," Christina said at last.  "I believe in imprisonment
as an essential part of a man's education--who told you?"

"I'm not going to say."

"Ronald Morelle--aha!"  She pointed an accusing finger at the
dumbfounded Evie.

"I know your guilty secret!  The 'Ronnie' you babble about in your
sleep is Ronnie Morelle!"

"Wh--what makes you--it isn't true--it is a damned lie--!"

"Don't be profane, Evie.  That is the worst of druggists' shops, you
pick up such awful language.  Mother says you can't work amongst
pills without getting ideas in your head."

"I never talk in my sleep--and I don't know Ronnie Morelle--who is
he?"

Evie's ignorance was badly assumed.  Christina became very
thoughtful.  She lay with her hand under her cheek, her gray eyes
searching her sister's face.

"Would Ronnie be impressed by your distant relationship with
nobility?" she asked quietly.  "Would it make such an awful
difference if he knew about the coat of arms in father's Bible?  I
don't think it would.  If it did, he isn't worth worrying about.
What is he?"

"Didn't Mr. Sault tell you?" asked Evie hotly.  "He seems to spend
his time gossiping about people who are a million times better than
him--"

"Than he," murmured Christina, her eyes closed.

"He is a nasty scandal-mongering old man!  I hate him!"

"He didn't say that Ronnie had been in prison," Christina's voice was
gentle.  "All that he said was that the only 'Ronnie' he knew was
Ronald Morelle.  He did not even describe him or give him a
character."

"How absurd, Christina!  As if old Sault could give Mr. Morelle 'a
character'!  One is a gentleman and the other is an old fossil!"

"Old age is honorable," said Christina tolerantly, "the arrogance of
you babies!"

"You're half in love with him!"

"Wholly," nodded Christina.  "I love his mind and his soul.  I am
incapable of any other kind of love.  I never want a man to draw my
flaming head to his shoulder and whisper, that until he met me, the
world was a desert, and food didn't taste good.  It is because
Ambrose Sault never paws me or holds my hand or kisses me on the brow
in the manner of a father who hopes to be something closer, that I
love him.  And I shall love him through eternity.  When I am dead and
he is dead.  And I want nothing more than this.  If he were to die
tomorrow, I should not grieve because his flesh means nothing to me.
The thing he gives me is everlasting.  That is where I am better off
than you, Evie.  You have nothing but what you give yourself.  You
think he gives you these wonderful memories which keep you awake at
nights.  You think it is his love for you that thrills you.  It isn't
that, Evie.  Your love is the love of the martyr who finds an
ecstatic joy in his suffering."

Groping toward understanding, Evie seized this illustration.  "God
loves the martyr--it isn't one-sided," she quavered and Christina
nodded.

"That is true, or it may be true.  Does your god love you?"

"It is blasphemous to--to talk of Ronnie as God."

"God with a small 'g'."

"It is blasphemous anyhow.  Ronnie does love me.  He hasn't silly and
conventional ideas about--about love as most people have.  He is much
broader-minded, but he does love me.  I know it.  A girl knows when a
man loves her."

"That is one of the things she doesn't know," interrupted Christina.
"She knows when he wants her, but she doesn't know how continually he
will want her.  He is unconventional, too?  And broad-minded?  The
broad-minded are usually people who take a generous view of their own
shortcomings.  Is he one of those unconventional souls who think that
marriage is a barbarous ceremony?"

"Who told you that?"  Evie was breathless from surprise.

"It isn't an unique view--broad-minded men often try to get
narrow-minded girls to see that standpoint."

"You're cynical--I hate cynical people," said Evie, throwing herself
on her bed, "and you have all your ideas of life out of books, and
the rotten people who come in here moaning about their troubles.  You
can't believe writers--not some writers--there are some, of course,
that give just a true picture of life--not in books, but in articles
in the newspapers.  They just seem to know what people are thinking
and feeling, and express themselves wonderfully."

"Ah--so Ronnie writes for the newspapers, does he?"

Evie's indignant retort was checked by a knock on the door.

"That is Mr. Sault--can he come in?"

"I suppose so," answered Evie grudgingly.  She got off the bed and
tied her dressing-gown more tightly.  "I don't really show my legs
through this kimono do I, Christina?"

"Not unless you want to--come in!"

Ambrose Sault looked tired.  "Just looked in before I went to my
room," he said.  "Good evening, Evie."

"Good evening, Mr. Sault."

Evie's dressing-gown was wrapped so tightly as to give her a
mummified appearance.

"I saw the osteopath today and I've arranged for him to come and talk
to you tomorrow," said Ambrose, sitting on the edge of the bed at the
inviting gesture of Christina's hand.

"I will parley with him," she nodded.  "I don't believe that he will
make a scrap of difference.  I've seen all sorts of doctors and
specialists.  Mother has a list of them--she is very proud of it."

"I'm only hoping that this man may do you some good," said Ambrose,
rubbing his chin meditatively.  "I have seen some wonderful cures--in
America.  Even Dr. Merville believes in them.  He says that if you
build a sky-scraper and the steel frame isn't true, you cannot expect
the doors to shut or the windows to open.  I'm sorry I am so late,
but the osteopath was dining out, and I had to wait until he came
back.  He hurt his ankle too, and that took time.  I had to give him
a rubbing.  He is the best man in London.  Dr. Duncan More."

She did not take her eyes from his face.  Evie noticed this and
discounted Christina's earlier assertion.

"Will it cost a lot of money?" asked Christina.

"Not much, in fact very little.  The first examination is free.  He
doesn't really examine you, you know.  He will just feel your back,
through your clothes.  I asked him that, because I know how you
dislike examinations.  And if he doesn't think that you can be
treated, and that there is a chance of making you better, he won't
bother you any more."

"I don't believe in these quack doctors," said Evie decidedly.  "They
promise all sorts of cures and they only take your money.  We have a
lot of those kind of remedies at the store, but Mr. Donker, the
manager, says that they are all fakes--don't tell me that an
osteopath isn't a medicine.  I know that.  He's a sort of doctor, but
I'll bet you he doesn't do any good."

"Cheer up, Job!" said Christina.  "Faith is something.  I suppose you
mean well, but if I took any notice of you I'd give up the struggle
now."

"I don't want to depress you, you're very unkind, Christina!  But I
don't think you ought to be too hopeful.  It would be such an
awful--what's the word, come-down for you."

"Reaction," said Sault and Christina together and they laughed.

Sault went soon after and Evie felt that a dignified protest was
called for.

"There is no reason why you should make me look like a fool before
Sault," she said hurt.  "Nobody would be happier than I should be if
you got well.  You know that.  I'm not so sure that Mr. Sault is
sincere--"

"What?"

Christina leaned upon her arm and her eyes were blazing.

"You can say that he is old and ugly, if you like, and shabby
and--anything.  But don't dare to say that, Evie--don't dare to say
that he isn't sincere!"

Evie lay awake for a long time that night.  Christina was certainly a
strange girl--and when she said she did not love Sault, she was not
speaking the truth.  That was just how she had felt, when Christina
had hinted that Ronnie was not sincere.  Only she had been too much
of a a lady to lose her temper.  About old Sault, too!  What did he
do for a living?  She must ask Christina.




XII

Mr. Jan Steppe sat astride of a chair, his elbows on the back-rest,
his saturnine face clouded with doubt.

"It certainly looks like a very ordinary safe to me, Sault.  Do you
mean to say that an expert could not get inside without disturbing
the apparatus, huh?"

"Impossible," replied Sault.  "I have filled the top chamber with
water and I have tried at least a thousand combinations and every
time I put the combination wrong, the safe has been flooded."

He twisted the dials on the face of the unpretentious repository,
until he brought five letters, one under the other, in line with an
arrow engraved on the safe door.  He was a long time doing this and
Steppe and the Greek watched hm.

"Now!" said Sault.

He turned the handle and the door swung open.  The contents were two
or three old newspapers and they were intact.

"What is the code word?" Steppe peered forward.  "Huh--why did you
choose that word, Sault?"

"It is one of the very few words I can spell.  Besides which, each
letter is different."

"It is not an inappropriate word," said Moropulos amused, "and one
easy to remember.  I intend pasting a notice on the safe, Steppe,
explaining frankly that unless the code word is used, and if any
other combination of letters is tried, indeed, if the handle is
turned, whilst the dial is set at any other word than the code word,
the contents of the safe are destroyed.  This may act as a deterrent
to promiscuous burglars."

Steppe fingered his stubbly beard.  "That will be telling people that
we have something in the safe that we want to keep hidden, huh?" he
said dubiously, "a fool idea!"

"Everybody has something in his safe that he wants to keep hidden,"
said the other coolly.

"Now let me try--shut the door, Sault, that is right."  Steppe got
out of the chair to spin the dials.  "Now we will suppose that I am
some unauthorized person trying to find a way of opening the safe.
So!"

He turned the handle.

"Open it."

Sault worked at the dials and presently the door swung open.  The
newspapers were saturated and an inch of water at the bottom of the
safe splashed out and into a bath-tub that Sault had put ready.

"How about cutting into the safe?  Suppose I am a burglar, huh?  I
burn out the lock or the side, and don't touch the combination?"

"I have left a hole in one side of the safe," said Sault, and pointed
to a rubber plug that had been rammed into a small aperture.

With a pair of pincers he pulled this out and a stream of water
spurted forth and was mostly caught in the can he held.

"That has the same effect," he explained.  "The water is pumped at a
pressure into the hollow walls of the safe.  The door is also hollow.
When the water runs out, a float drops and releases the contents of
the upper chamber.  In the case of the door, the float operates the
same spring that floods the safe when the handle is turned."

Steppe scratched his head.  "Perfect," he said.  "You have
experimented with the acid?"

Sault nodded.  "Both with sulphuric and hydrochloric," he said.  "I
think hydrochloric is the better."

Steppe turned to the Greek.  "You had better keep it here," he said,
and then: "Will it be ready today?  I want to get those Brakpan
letters out of the way.  I needn't tell you, Sault, that the code
word must be known only to us three, huh?  I don't mind your
knowing--but, you, Moropulos!  You have got to cut out absinthe--d'ye
hear?  Cut it out--right out!"  His growl became a roar that shook
the room and Moropulos quailed.

"It is cut out," he said sulkily.  "I am confining my boozing to the
'Parthenon'.  I've got to have some amusement."

"You have it, if all I hear is true," said Steppe grimly.  "Give
Sault a hundred, Moropulos.  It is worth it.  What do you do with
your money, Sault?  You don't spend it on fine clothes, huh?"

"He goes about doing good," said Moropulos, with a good-natured
sneer.  "I met him in Kensington Gardens the other day, wheeling an
interesting invalid.  Who was she, Sault?"

"My landlady's daughter," replied the other shortly.

"No business of yours, anyhow," growled Steppe.  "You've met Miss
Merville, huh?  Nice lady?"

"Yes, a very nice lady," said Sault steadily.  He pushed back his
long gray hair from his forehead.

"Pretty, huh?"

Sault nodded and was glad when his employer had departed.

"Steppe is gone on that girl," said Moropulos.  "He'd have brained
you, if you had said she wasn't pretty!"

"He wouldn't have brained me," said Sault quietly.

"I suppose he wouldn't.  Even Steppe would have thought twice about
lifting his hand to you.  He's a brute though, I saw him smash a man
in the face once for calling him a liar--at a directors' meeting.  It
was an hour before the poor devil knew what had happened.  Yes, she
is pretty.  I see her riding some mornings, a young Diana--delicious.
I'd give a lot to be in Steppe's shoes."

"Why?"

Moropulos rolled a cigarette with extraordinary rapidity and lit it.
"Why?  Well, if he wants her, he'll have her.  Steppe is that kind.
I don't suppose the doctor would have much to say in the matter.  Or
she, either."

Sault picked up an iron bar from the table.  It was one of four that
he had brought for the purpose of strengthening the safe, and it was
nearly an inch in diameter.

"I think she would have something to say," he said, weighing the bar
on the palms of his hands.

And then, to the Greek's amazement, he bent the steel into a V.  He
used no apparent effort; the bar just changed its shape in his hands
as though it had been made of lead.

"Why did you do that?" he gasped.

"I don't know," said Ambrose Sault, and with a jerk brought the steel
almost straight.

"Phew!"

Moropulos took the bar from his hand.

"I shouldn't like to annoy you seriously," he said.  He did not speak
of Beryl again.




XIII

Evie Colebrook had found a note awaiting her at the store on the
morning of the day she came home early.  It consisted of a few words
scrawled on a plain card, and had neither address nor signature:


"_Dearest girl_: I shall not be able to see you tonight.  I have a
long article to write and shall probably be working through the
night, when your dear and precious eyes are closed in sleep.  _Your
lover_."


She had the card under her pillow when she slept.

"Are you sure you aren't too busy," said Beryl when she came down, a
radiant figure, to the waiting Ronnie.  "Now that you have taken up a
literary career, I picture you as being rushed every hour of the day."

"Sarcasm is wasted on me," Ronnie displayed his beautiful teeth.
"Unflattering though it be, I admit to a slump in my literary stock.
I have had no commissions for a week."

"And I'm not taking you away from any of those beautiful friends of
yours?"

"Beryl!" he murmured reproachfully.  "You know that I have no
friends--if by friends you mean girl friends."

"It is my mad jealousy which makes me ask these questions," she said
quizzically, "come along, Ronnie, we will be late."

What the play was about, Beryl never quite remembered.  Ronnie,
sitting in the shade of the curtains, was more interested in his
companion.  It was strange that he had known her ever since she was a
child and he a schoolboy, and yet had never received a true
impression of her beauty.  He watched her through the first act, the
tilt of her chin, the quick smile.

"Beryl, you ought to be painted," he said in the first interval.  "I
mean by a portrait painter.  You look so perfectly splendid that I
couldn't take my eyes off you."

The color came slowly and, in the dim light of the box, a man who had
not been looking for this evidence of her pleasure, would have seen
nothing.

"That is a little less subtle than the usual brand of flattery you
practice, isn't it, Ronnie?  Or is your artlessness really an art
that conceals art?"

"I'm not flattering you--I simply speak as I feel.  I never realized
your loveliness until tonight."  She straightened up and laughed.

"You think I'm crude--I suppose I am.  You do not say that I am
keeping my hand in, though you probably think so.  I admit I have had
all sorts of flirtations, in fact, I have been rather a blackguard in
that way, and of course I've said nice things to girls--buttered them
and played to their vanity.  But if I were trying to make love to
you, I should be a little more subtle, as you say.  I should imply my
compliments.  It is just because my--my spasm is unpremeditated that
I find myself at a loss for words.  There is no sense in my making
love to you, anyway, supposing that you would allow me.  I can't
marry--I simply won't marry until I have enough money and I haven't
nearly enough.  If in four years' time the money doesn't come--well
then, I'll risk being a pauper, but the girl will have to know."

She said nothing.  Here was an unexpected side to his character.  He
had some plan of life and a code of sorts.  If she had been better
acquainted with that life of his, which she so far suspected, she
would have grown alert when Ronnie unmasked his way of retreat.  She
was surprised at his virtuous reluctance to make a woman share his
comparative poverty--she should have been suspicious when he fixed a
time limit to his bachelorhood.  It was not like Ronnie to plan so
far in advance, that she knew; it might have occurred to her that he
was definitely excusing the postponement of marriage.  As it was, she
was seeing him in a more favorable light.  Ronnie desired that she
should.  His instinct in these matters was uncannily accurate.

"It was worth coming out with you, if only to hear your views on
matrimony," was all the comment she made.

"I don't know--" he looked gloomily into the auditorium, "in many
ways I have been regretting it.  That doesn't sound gallant, but I am
not in a mood for nice speeches--you think I am?  I did not mean to
be nice when I said that you were lovely, any more than I wish to be
nice to Titian when I praise his pictures.  Beryl, I've been fond of
you for years.  I suppose I've been in love with you, though I've
never wanted to be.  That is the truth.  I've recognized just how
unfair it would be, to chain a woman like you to a rake--I'm not
sparing myself--like me.  God knows whether I could be constant.  In
my heart I know that if I had you, there could be no other woman in
the world for me--an intimate knowledge of my own character makes me
skeptical."

Beryl was spared the necessity for replying.  The curtain went up on
the second act just then.  She knew he was looking at her, and turned
in her chair to hide her face.  Her heart was beating tumultuously.
She was trembling.  She was a fool--a fool.  He meant nothing--he was
a liar; lied as readily as other men spoke the truth.  That frankness
of his was assumed--he was acting.  Versed in the weaknesses of
women, he had chosen the only approach that would storm her citadel.
She told herself these truths, her reason battling in a last
desperate stand against his attack.  And yet--why should he not be
sincere?  For the first time he had admitted the unpleasant charges
which hitherto he had denied.  He surely could not expect to make her
love him more by the confession of his infidelities?

If he had followed up his talk, had made any attempt to carry on the
conversation from the point where he left it, she would have been
invincible.  But he did not.  When the curtain went down again, he
was more cheerful and was seemingly interested only in the people he
recognized in the stalls.  He asked her if she would mind if he left
her.  He wanted to smoke and to meet some men he knew.

She assented and was disappointed.  They had a long wait between
these two acts, and as he had returned to the box after a shorter
interval than she had expected, there was plenty of time, had he so
wished, to have resumed his conversation.  He showed no such desire,
and it was she who began it.

"You puzzle me, Ronnie.  I can't see--if you loved me, how you could
do some of the things you have done.  You won't be so commonplace as
to tell me that you wanted to keep me out of your mind and that that
form of amusement helped you to forget me."

"No," he admitted, "but, Beryl dear, need we discuss it?  I don't
know why I spoke to you as I did.  I felt like it."

"But I am going to discuss it," she insisted.  "I want my mind set in
order.  It is overthrown for the moment.  What prevented you from
keeping me as a friend all this time--a real close friend, if you
loved me?  Oh, Ronnie, I do want to be fair to you even at the risk
of being shameless, as I am now.  Why could you not have asked me?
Even if it meant waiting?"

He looked down at the floor.  "I have some sense of decency left," he
said in a low voice.  And then the curtain went up.

Beryl looked at her program.  The play had four acts; there was
another interval.  He did not leave her this time; nor did he wait
for her to begin.

"I'm going to be straight with you, Beryl," he said, "I want you--I
adore you.  But I cannot commit you to an engagement which may
adversely affect your father and incidentally myself.  I am being
brutally selfish and mercenary, but I am going to say what I think.
You'll be amused and perhaps horrified when I tell you that Steppe is
very keen on you."

She was neither amused nor horrified; but on the other hand, if
Ronnie Morelle realized that in his invention he had accidentally hit
upon the truth, he would not have been amused and most certainly
terror would have struck him dumb.  If Beryl had only said what she
was of a mind to say, that she had learned from her father that
Steppe was in love with her, she might have silenced him.  But she
said nothing.  Ronnie's explanation seemed natural--knowing Ronnie.

"I'd sooner see you dead than married to him," he said vehemently,
"but none of us can say that now.  We are in a very tight place.
Steppe could ruin your father with a gesture--he could very seriously
inconvenience me."  Here he was much in earnest, and the girl, with a
cold feeling at her heart, knew he spoke the truth.

"But that time will pass.  We shall weather the storm which is
shrieking round our ears--you don't read the financial papers--you're
wise.  You see what might happen, Beryl?"

Beryl nodded.  She was ridiculously happy.

"A great play, don't you think so, Miss Merville?"  It was Sir John
Maxton who had pushed through the crowd in the vestibule.

"Splendid," she said.

"Ronnie, did you like it?"

"I never heard a word," said Ronnie, and somehow that statement was
so consonant with his new honesty that it confirmed her in a faith
which was as novel.

The car carried them through the crowded circus and into the quietude
of Piccadilly.

"Oh, Ronnie--I am so happy--"

His arm slipped round her and his lips pressed fiercely against her
red mouth.

* * * * *

"Why can't you sleep?" asked the drowsy Christina, as the girl lit
her candle for the second time.

"I don't know--I'm having such beastly dreams," said Evie fretfully.




_BOOK THE SECOND_


I

The step of Ambrose Sault was light and there was a buoyancy in his
mien when he came into Mrs. Colebrook's kitchen, surprising that good
lady with so unusual an appearance at an hour of the day when she was
taking her afternoon siesta.

"Lord, how you startled me!" she said, "the ostymopat came this
morning.  A stout gentleman with whiskers.  Very nice, too, and
American.  But bless you, Mr. Sault, he'll never do any good to
Christina, though I wish he could, for I'm up and down those blessed
stairs from the moment I get up to the moment I go to bed.  He'll
never cure her.  She's had ten doctors and four specialists, and
she's been three times to St. Mary's hospital; to say nothing of the
Evelyna when she was a child and fell out of the perambulator that
did it.  Ten doctors and four specialists--they're doctors, too, in a
manner of speaking, so you might say fourteen."

Sault never interrupted his landlady, although his forbearance meant,
very often, a long period of waiting.

"Can I see Christina, Mrs. Colebrook?" he begged.

"Certainly you can, you needn't ask me.  She'll be glad to see you,"
said Mrs. Colebrook conventionally.  "I thought of going up myself,
but she has always got those books.  Do you think so much reading is
good for her--?"

"I'm sure it is."

"But--well, I don't know.  I've never read anything but the Sunday
papers, and they've got enough horrors in 'em--but they actually
happened.  It isn't guesswork like it is in books.  I never read a
book through in my life.  My husband--!  Why, when he passed away,
there was enough books in the house to fill a room.  He'd sooner read
than work at any time.  He was a bit aristocratic in his way."

Sault had come to understand that "aristocratic" did not stand, as
Mrs. Colebrook applied the word, for gentleness of birth, but for a
loftiness of demeanor in relation to labor.

He made his escape up the stairs.  Christina was not reading.  She
lay on her back, her hands lightly folded, and she was inspecting the
end bed-rail with a fixity of gaze that indicated to Ambrose how far
she was from Walter Street and the loud little boys who played
beneath her window.

"I have nothing for you today--I haven't been baking."

She patted the bed and he sat down.

"The osteopath has been, I suppose mother told you?  She has the
queerest word for him, 'ostymopat'.  Yes, he came and saw, or rather,
he prodded in a gentle, harmless kind of way, but I fancy that my
spine has conquered.  He didn't say very much, but seemed to be more
interested in the bones of my neck and shoulders than he was in the
place where it hurts.  He wouldn't tell me anything, I suppose he
didn't want to make me feel miserable.  Poor, kind soul--after all
the uncomplimentary things that have been said about my spinal
column!"

"He told me," said Ambrose, and something in his face made her open
her eyes wide.

"What did he say--please tell me--was it good?"

He nodded and a beatific smile lightened his face.

"You can be cured; completely cured.  You will walk in a year or
maybe less.  He thinks it will take six months to manipulate the
bones into their place; he talked about 'breaking down' something,
but he didn't mean that he would hurt you.  He just meant that he
would have to remove--I don't know what it is, but it would be a
gradual process and you would feel nothing.  He wants your mother to
put you into a sort of thin overall before he comes."

He lugged a parcel from his pocket.  "I bought one--a smock of thick
silk.  I thought you had better have silk.  He works at you through
it, and it makes his work easier for him and for you if--anyhow, I
got silk, Christina."

Her eyes were shining, but she did not look at him.  "It doesn't seem
possible," she said softly, "and it is going to cost a lot of
money--cost you.  The silk overall is lovely, but I wouldn't mind if
I wore sackcloth.  You great soul!"

She caught his hand in both of hers and gripped it with a strength
that surprised him.

"Evie is quite sure that I am in love with you, Ambrose--I lied to
her when I said I never called you Ambrose.  And, of course, we are
in love with one another, but in a way that poor Evie doesn't
understand.  If I was normal, I suppose I'd love you in her way--poor
Ambrose, you would be so embarrassed."

She laughed quietly.

"Love is a great disturbance," said Ambrose, "I think Evie means that
kind."

"Were you ever in love that way?  I have never been.  I think I love
you as I should love my child, if I had one.  If you say that you
love me as a mother, I shall be offended, Ambrose.  Do you think it
will really happen--will it cost very much?"

"A pound a visit, and he is coming every day except Sunday."

Christina made a calculation and the immensity of the sum left her
horror-stricken.

"A hundred and fifty pounds!" she cried.  "Oh, Ambrose--how can you?
I won't have the treatment.  It is certain to fail--I won't, Ambrose!"

"I've paid a hundred on account.  He didn't want to take it, but I
said I would only let him come on those terms.  I wasn't speaking the
truth--I'd have let him come on any terms.  So you see, Christina,
I've paid, and you must be treated!"

"Hold my hand, Ambrose--and don't speak a word.  I'm going for a long
walk--I haven't dared walk before."

She resumed her gaze upon the bed-rail and he sat in silence whilst
she dreamed.

Evie returned at ten o'clock that night and heard Christina singing
as she mounted the stairs.  "Enter, sister, has mother told you that
I am practically a well woman?"

"Don't put too high hopes--"

"Shut up!  I'm a well woman I tell you.  In a year I shall walk into
your medicine shop and sneer at you as I pass.  Have you brought home
any candy?  'Sweets' is hopelessly vulgar, and I like the American
word better.  And you look bright and sonsy.  Did you see the god?"

"I wish you wouldn't use religious words, Christina, just when we are
going to bed, too.  I wonder you're not afraid.  Yes, I saw my boy."

"Have you a boy?" in simulated surprise.  "Evie, you are a surprising
child.  Whom does he take after?"

"Really, I think you are indecent," said her sister, shocked.  "You
know perfectly well I mean--Ronnie."

"Oh, is he the 'boy'?  To you girls everything that raises a hat or
smokes a cheap cigar is strangely boyish.  Well, is he nearly dead
from his midnight labors?"

"I'd like to see you write a long article for the newspapers," said
Evie witheringly.

"I wish you could.  You may even see that.  Tell me about him, Evie.
What is he like--what sort of a house has he?"  She waited.

"He lives in a flat, and, of course, I've never seen it.  You don't
imagine that I would go into a man's flat alone, do you?'"

Christina sighed.  "There are points about the bourgeoisie mind which
are admirable," she said.  "What does 'bourgeoisie' mean?  The
bourgeoisie are the people who have names instead of numbers to their
houses; they catch the nine twenty-five to town and go home by the
five seventeen.  They go to church at least once on Sunday and their
wives wear fascinators and patronize the dress circle."

"You talk such rubbish, Christina.  I can't make head or tail of it
half the time.  I don't see what it has got to do with my not going
in to Ronnie's flat.  It wouldn't be respectable."

"Why didn't I think of that word?" wailed Christina.  "Evie."

"Huh?" said Evie, her mouth full of pins and in an unconscious
imitation of one who, did she but know it, held her soul in the
hollow of his hands.

"Where do you meet your lad--I simply can't say 'boy'?"

"Oh, anywhere," said Evie vaguely.  "We used to meet a lot in the
park.  As a matter of fact, that is where I first saw him, but now he
doesn't go to the park.  He says the crowd is vulgar and it is you
know, Christina; why I've heard men addressing meetings and saying
that there wasn't a God!  And talking about the king most familiarly.
It made my blood boil!"

"I don't suppose the king minds, and I'm sure God only laughed."

"Christina!"

"Well, why not?  What's the use of being God if He hasn't a sense of
humor?  He has everything He wants, and that is one of the first
blessings He would give Himself.  Where do you meet Ronnie, Evie?"

"Sometimes I have dinner with him, and sometimes we just meet at the
tube station and go to the pictures."  Christina pinched her chin in
thought.

"He knows that girl who came to see you, Miss Merville.  I told him
about her visit, and he asked me if she knew that I was a friend of
his, and whether she had seen me.  She rather runs after him, I
think.  He doesn't say so, he is too much a gentleman.  I can't
imagine Ronnie saying anything unkind."

"But he sort of hinted," suggested Christina.

"You are uncharitable, Christina!  Nothing Ronnie does is right in
your eyes.  Of course he didn't hint.  It is the way he looks, when I
speak about her.  I know that he doesn't like her very much.  He
admitted it, because, just after we had been talking about her, he
said that I was the only girl he had ever met who did not bore
him--unutterably.  His very words!"

"That was certainly convincing evidence," said Christina, and her
sister arrested the motion of her hair brush to look suspiciously in
her direction.  You could never be sure whether Christina was being
nice or unpleasant.




II

Ronald Morelle had once been the victim of a demoralizing experience.
He had awakened in time to hear the church clock strike nine, and for
the space of a few seconds, he had suffered the tortures of hell.
Why, he never discovered.  He had heard the clock strike nine since
then, in truth he had been specially wakened by François the very
next morning, in the expectation that the tolling of the bell would
recall to his mind the cause of his abject fear.  But not again did
the chimes affect him.  He had made a very thorough examination of
his mind in the Freudian method, but could trace no connection
between his moments of terror and the sound of a bell.  "A nightmare,
as an unpleasant dream is called, may be intensively vivid, yet from
the second of waking leaves no definite memory behind it," said a
lesser authority.

He had to rest content with that.  He had other matters to think
about.  Steppe, an unusual visitor, came to his flat one morning.
Ronnie was in his dressing-gown, reading the morning newspapers, and
he leaped up with a curious sense of guilt when the big man was
announced.

"You dabble in press work, Morelle, don't you?" Ronnie acknowledged
his hobby.

"Do you know anybody in Fleet Street--editors and such like?"

"I know a few--why, Mr. Steppe?"

Steppe lit a cigar and strolling across the room looked out of the
window.  He carried the air of a patron to such an extent that Ronnie
felt an interloper, an uncomfortable feeling to a man still in
pajamas.

"Because we've got to beat up a few friendly press criticisms," said
Steppe at last.  "The financial papers are raising merry hell about
the Klein River diamond flotation and we have to get our story in
somehow or other.  You don't want to be called a swindling company
promoter, huh?  Wouldn't look good, huh?"

"I don't see how I come into it," said Ronnie.

"You don't, huh?  Of course you don't!  Have you ever seen anything
but a shop girl's ankles?  You--don't see!  You're a director, so is
Merville.  You've drawn directors' fees.  I'm not a director--it
doesn't matter a damn to me what they say."

The name of Jan Steppe seldom appeared amongst the officers or
directors of a company.  He had his nominees who voted according to
the orders they received.

"What makes it so almighty bad is that I was floating the Midwell
Traction Corporation next week.  We'll have to put that back now, but
it will keep.  What are you going to do?"

"I don't know exactly what to do," said Ronnie.  It was the first
time he had ever been called upon to justify his directors' fees.  "I
know a few men--but I doubt if I can do anything.  Fleet Street is a
little rigid in these things."

"Get an article in somewhere," ordered Steppe peremptorily.  "Take
this line: That we bought the Klein River Mine on the report of the
best engineer in South Africa.  We did.  There's no lie about that.
Mackenzie--he's in a lunatic asylum now.  And the report was in his
own handwriting, so there won't be a copy.  And you needn't mention
that he is in a lunatic asylum, most people think he is dead."

"Didn't he write to us complaining that we only put an extract from
his report into the prospectus?"

"Never mind about that!" snarled Steppe.  "I didn't come here for a
conversation.  He did write; said that we'd published a sentence away
from the context.  He didn't think I was going to put the worst into
the prospectus, did he?  What he said was, that the Klein River Mine
would be one of the richest in South Africa if we could get over
difficulties of working, which he said were insuperable.  He was
right.  They are.  The only way to work that mine is with deep sea
divers!  Now, have this right, Morelle, and try to forget Flossie's
blue eyes and Winnie's golden hair.  This is business.  Your
business.  You've got to take that report (Moropulos will give it to
you, but you mustn't take it from the office) and extract all that is
good in it.  At the general meeting you have to produce your copy and
read it.  If anybody wants to see the original, refer 'em to
Mackenzie.  You've got to make Klein River look alive and you haven't
to defend it, d'ye hear me?  You've got to handle that mine as though
you wished it was yours, huh?  No defence!  The hundred-pound shares
are at twelve; you've got to make 'em look worth two hundred.  And it
is dead easy if you go the right way about it.  Ask any pickpocket.
The easiest way to steal a pocketbook is to go after the man that's
just lost his watch.  Make 'em think that the best thing they can do
is to buy more Klein Rivers and hold them, huh?  You've got to think
it, or you won't say it.  Get this meeting through without a fuss,
and there's a thousand for you."

"I'll try," said Ronnie.

Yet, it was in no confident mood that he faced a hall-full of enraged
stockholders a week later.  The meeting was described as "noisy"; it
ended in the passing of a vote of confidence in the directors.
Ronnie was elated; no other man but Steppe could have induced him to
present a forged document to a meeting of critical stockholders, and
when Klein Rivers rose the next day to seventeen, he was not as
enthusiastic as Dr. Merville, who 'phoned his congratulations on what
was undoubtedly a remarkable achievement.

He spoke of nothing else that day, and Beryl basked in reflected
approval.  Her father knew nothing.  He wondered why Ronnie, whom he
did not like overmuch, called with greater frequency.  He had too
large an experience of life to harbor any misconception as to his
second cousin's private character, although he would, in other
circumstances, have passively accepted him as a son-in-law.  Men take
a very tolerant view of other men's weaknesses.  The theory that the
world holds a patch of arable land reserved for young men to put
under wild oats, and that without exciting the honest farmers whose
lands adjoin, is a theory that dies hard as the cultivated fields
increase in number.

He did not regard Ronnie as a marrying man, and with the exception of
a few moments of uneasiness he had had when he noted Beryl's
preference for his associate's society, he found nothing
objectionable in the new interest which Ronnie had found.  But he
wished he wouldn't call so often.

Dr. Merville might, and did, dismiss Ronnie's errant adventures with
a philosophical _sua cuique voluptas_--he found himself taking a more
and more lenient view of Ronald Morelle's character.  A man is never
himself until he is idle.  Successions of nurses, schoolmasters and
professors shepherd him into the service of his fellows, and the
conventions of his profession, no less than a natural desire to stand
well with the friends and clients he has acquired in his progress,
assist him in maintaining something of the appearance and mental
attitude which his tutors have formed in him.  Many a man has gone
through life being some other man who has impressed him, or some
great teacher who has imparted his personality into his plastic pupil.

The first instinct of a man lost in the desert is to discard his
clothes.  The doctor, wandering in this financial waste, began to
discard his principles.  He was unconscious of the sacrifice.  If, in
the course of his professional life he had made a mistaken diagnosis,
or blundered in an operation, he would have known.  If at school he
had committed some error, he would have been corrected.  Now, though
this he did not realize, he was, for the first time in his life, free
from any other authority than his own will and conscience.  He fell
into a common error when he believed, as he did, that standards of
honor and behavior are peculiar to the trades in which they are
exercised and that right and wrong are adaptable to circumstances.

"Ronnie is coming to dinner tonight, isn't he?  You know I shall not
be here, my dear?  I promised Steppe I would spend the evening with
him.  I wish you would tell Ronnie how pleased we all are at his very
fine speech.  I never dreamed that he had it in him--Steppe talks of
making him chairman of the company."

"I thought he was that."

"No--er--no.  The chairman is a man named Howitt--a very troublesome
fellow.  Steppe bought him out before the meeting.  Ronnie was only
acting chairman."

"I thought you were a director, daddy?"  She was curious on this
point and had waited an opportunity of asking him why he had not been
present at the meeting.

"I am--in a sense--but my nerves are in such a state just now, that I
simply couldn't bear the strain of listening to a crowd of noisy
louts jabbering stupid criticism.  The company is in a perfectly
sound position.  You can see that from the way the stock has jumped
up in the past few days.  These city people aren't fools, you know."

She wondered if it was the "city people" who were buying the stock or
were responsible for the encouraging rise in Klein River Diamonds.
More likely, she thought, the buyers were the people who knew very
little about stock exchange transactions.

Ronnie arrived as the doctor was going out, and they met in the
street before the door.  "It was nothing," said Ronnie modestly,
"they were rather rowdy at first, but after I had had a little talk
with them--you know how sheep-like these fellows are.  I discovered
from Steppe who was likely to be the leader of the opposition, and I
saw him before the meeting.  Of course, he was difficult and full of
threats about appointing a committee of investigation.  However--"

"Yes, yes, you did splendidly--you'll find Beryl waiting for you.
Er--Ronnie."

"Yes?"

"Don't unsettle her--she is in an enquiring mood just now, especially
about the companies and things.  I shouldn't talk too much about
Klein Rivers.  She is a very shrewd girl.  Not that there is anything
about Klein Rivers that is discreditable."

"I never talk business to Beryl," said Ronnie.  Which was nearly true.

He found her in the drawing-room and took her into his arms.  She was
so dear and fragrant.  So malleable in his skilled hands now that the
barrier of her suspicion had been broken down.




III

In the middle of the night, Ambrose Sault turned in his narrow bed
and woke.  He was a light sleeper and the party walls of the tiny
house were thin.

He got out of bed, switched on the light of a portable electric lamp
which stood within reach of his hand and, thrusting his feet into
slippers, opened the door.  The house was silent, but a crack of
light showed under Christina's door.

"Are you awake, Christina?" he asked softly.  "Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing, Mr. Sault."

It was not Christina.  There was no hint of tears in her voice.
Ambrose went back to his bed, and to sleep.  He knew that he had not
been mistaken either as to the sound that had awakened him or the
direction from whence it came.  For one terrific moment he had
thought it was Christina and that the new treatment which had already
commenced was responsible for the loud sobs which had disturbed his
sleep.  He was sorry for Evie.  He was easily sorry.  A cat writhing
in the middle of the street, where a too swift motor-car had passed,
wrung his heart.  A child crying in pain made him sweat.  When he saw
a man and a woman quarrelling in this vile neighborhood, he rushed
from the scene lest the woman be struck.

"What did he get--up for," whispered Evie, "he is
always--interfering."

"The wonder to me is that the whole street isn't up," said Christina.
"What is the matter, Evie?"

"I don't know--I'm miserable."  Evie flounced over in her bed.  "I
just had to cry.  I'm sorry."

Christina was very serious; she too had been awakened by the
hysterical outburst.  It carried a meaning to her that she had the
courage to face.

"There is nothing wrong, is there, Evie?"  No answer.

"I can't be all the help to you that I should like, darling, and I am
a pig to you at times.  But I get tetchy myself, and it is a bore
lying here day after day.  You would tell me if there was anything
wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," whispered the girl.

"I mean, really wrong.  If it was anything that--affected your
health.  Nothing would make you wrong in my eyes.  I should just love
you and help you all I could.  You know that.  It isn't wise to keep
some secrets, Evie, not if you know that there is somebody who loves
you well enough to take half your burden from you."

"I don't know what you're driving at," said Evie in a fret, "you
don't mean--?  I'm a virgin, if that is what you mean," she said
crudely.

Christina snorted.  "Then what in hell are you snivelling about?" she
demanded savagely.  She was not unreasonably irritated.

"I haven't--seen--Ronnie--for a week!" sobbed the girl.

"I wish to God you'd never seen him," snapped Christina and wished
she hadn't, for the next minute Evie was in bed with her, in her arms.

"I'm so unhappy--I wish I hadn't met him, too--I know that it isn't
right, Chris--I know it isn't--I know I shall never be happy.  He is
so much above me--and I'm so ignorant--such--a--such a shop girl."

Christina cuddled the slim figure and kissed her damp face.  "You'll
get over that, Evie," she said soothingly.

"But I love him so!"

"You don't really--you are too young, Evie--you can't test your
feelings.  I was reading today about some people who live in
Australia, natives, who think that a sort of sour apple is the most
lovely fruit in the world.  But it is only because they haven't any
other kind of fruit.  If you go to a poor sort of store to buy a
dress, you get to think the best they have in stock is the best you
can buy anywhere.  It takes a lot of courage to walk out of that shop
and find another.  After a while you are sure and certain that the
dress they show you is lovely.  It is only when you put it against
the clothes that other women have bought from the better shops, that
you see how old-fashioned and tawdry and what an ugly color it is."
She waited for an answer, but Evie was asleep.

Ambrose came home early the next day.  Every other afternoon he took
Christina to Kensington Gardens.  He kept the long spinal carriage in
a stable and spent at least half an hour in cleaning and polishing
the wheels and lacquered panels of the "chariot".

"Shut the door, Ambrose."  He obeyed.

"You heard Evie crying?  It was nothing.  She hasn't seen her man for
a week and she was a little upset.  I promised her to tell you that
it was all your imagination, if you asked.  Poor Evie doesn't know
that you wouldn't ask anyhow."

"Is it Ronald Morelle, Christina?"

She nodded and, seeing his face lengthen, she asked: "Is he a good
man, Ambrose?  Do you think there is any danger to Evie?"

"I don't know him personally," Ambrose was speaking very slowly.
"No, I don't know him.  Once or twice I have seen him but I have
never spoken.  Moropulos says he is rotten.  That was the word he
used.  There have been one or two nasty incidents.  Moropulos likes
talking about that sort of thing--what was that word you told me,
Christina?  It is not like me to forget?  It describes a man with a
bad curiosity.

"Prurient?"

"That is the word.  Moropulos has that kind of mind.  He has
books--all about beastly subjects.  And pictures.  He says that
Ronald Morelle is bad.  The worst man he has ever met.  He wasn't
condemning him, you understand.  In fact, he was admiring him.
Moropulos would."

Christina was plucking at her underlip pensively.

"Poor Evie!" she said.  "She thinks she is in love with him.  He is a
beautiful dream to her, naturally, because she has never met anybody
like him.  I wish he had made the mistake of thinking she was easy,
the first time he met her.  That would have ended it.  What I am
afraid of, is that he does understand her, and is wearing down her
resistance gradually.  What am I to do, Ambrose?"

Years before, when he was working in a penal settlement, Ambrose
Sault had bruised and cut his chin.  He had been working in tapioca
fields, and the prison doctor had warned him not to touch the healing
wound with his hand for fear of poisoning it.  From this warning he
had acquired a curious trick.  In moments of doubt he rubbed his chin
with the knuckle of a finger.  Christina had often seen him do this
and had found in the gesture sure evidence of his perplexity.

"You can't advise me?" she said, reading the sign, "I didn't think
you would be able to."

"I can go to Morelle and warn him," suggested Sault, "but that means
trouble--here.  I don't want to make mischief."

She nodded.  "Evie would never forgive us," she said with a sigh.
"I'm ready, Ambrose."

He stooped and lifted her from the bed, as though, as she once
described it, she were of no greater weight than a pillow.

* * * * *

Mr. Jan Steppe was dressing for dinner when Sault was announced.
"Tell him to wait--no, send him up."

"Here, sir?" asked the valet.

"Where else, you fool, huh?"

Sault came into the dressing-room and waited until his employer had
fixed a refractory collar.

"Don't wait, you."  The valet retired discreetly.

"Well, Sault, what do you want?"

"The daughter of the woman I lodge with knows Morelle," said Ambrose
Sault briefly.  "She's a pretty child and I don't want anything to
happen to her that will necessitate my taking Morelle and breaking
his neck."

Steppe looked round with a scowl.  "'Necessitate'?  You talk like a
damned professor.  I'm not Morelle's keeper.  It is enough trouble to
keep him up to the scratch in other matters.  As to breaking his
neck, I've got something to say to that, Sault, huh?"  He faced the
visitor, a terrifying figure, his attitude a threat and a challenge.

"You might have to identify him," said Sault thoughtfully, "that is
true."

Steppe's face went red.  "Now see here, Sault.  I've never had a
fight with you and I don't want to, huh?  You're the only one of the
bunch that is worth ten cents as a man, but I'll allow nobody to
dictate to me--nobody, whether he is a girl-chasing dude or an
escaped convict.  Get that right!  I've smashed bigger men and
stronger men than you, by God!"

"You'll not smash me," said Sault coolly, "and you needn't smash
Morelle.  I'm telling you that I won't have that girl hurt.  A word
from you will send Morelle crawling at her feet.  I don't know him,
but I know of him.  He's that kind."

Steppe glared.  "You're telling me, are you?" he breathed.  "You
think you've got me because you're indispensable now that you know
about the safe.  But I'll have another safe and another word.  D'ye
hear?  I'll show you that no damned lag can bully me!"

The other smiled.  "You know that the code is safe with me.  That's
my way.  I would break Morelle or you for the matter of that--kill
you with my hands before your servant could come--but the code would
be with me.  You know that, too."  He met, had not feared to meet,
the fury of Steppe's eyes and presently the big man turned away with
a shrug.

"You might," he said, speaking more to himself than to Ambrose Sault.
"One of these days I'll try you out.  I'm not a weakling and I've
beaten every man that stood up to me."  He looked round at the
visitor and the anger had gone from his face.

"I believe you about the safe.  You're the first man or woman I've
ever believed in my life.  Sounds queer, huh?  It is a fact.  I'm not
frightened of you--nobody knows that better than you."  Sault nodded.

"About Morelle--I'll talk to him.  What is this girl--you're not in
love with her yourself, huh?  Can't imagine that.  All right, I'll
speak to Morelle--a damned cur.  Anything more?"

"Nothing," said Ambrose and went out.

Steppe stared at the closed door.  "A man," he said and shivered.  No
other man breathing had caused Steppe to shiver.

He saw Ronnie at a club late that night.  "Here, I want you," he
jerked his head in the direction of a quiet corner of the smoking
room, and Ronnie followed him, expecting compliments, for they had
not met since the meeting.

"You've got a parcel of women in tow, huh?" said Steppe.

"I don't quite understand--" began Ronnie.

"You understand all right.  One of them is a friend of
Sault's--Colebrook, I think her name must be.  Go steady.  She is a
friend of Sault's.  He says he'll break your neck if you monkey
around there, do you get that, huh?  Sault says so.  He'll do it."

Ronnie did not know Ambrose Sault any better than Ambrose knew him.
The threat did not sound very dreadful and he smiled.

"You can grin; maybe I'll see the same grin when I come to look at
you on the mortuary slab.  Sault is a hell of a bad man to cross.  He
has had his kill once and that will make the second seem like blowing
bubbles.  That's all."

Ronnie was annoyed, but not greatly impressed.  He only knew Sault as
a sort of superior workman, who did the dirty work of the
confederacy.  Sometimes he used to wonder how Steppe employed him,
but then he also speculated upon the exact standing of Moropulos
whose name never appeared on a prospectus and who had, apparently, no
particular duties.

Threats did not greatly distress Ronnie Morelle.  He had been
threatened so often; and it was his experience that the worst was
over when the threat came.  He was free of the park now.  Walking
down Regent Street, one Saturday afternoon, he had come face to face
with The Girl Who Had Screamed.  She was with a tall,
broad-shouldered young man and she had recognized him.  After he had
passed them, Ronnie, from the tail of his eye, saw the couple stop
and the girl point after him.  The man looked as though he were going
to follow, but The Girl Who Screamed caught his arm.  And that was
the end of it.

The man might hate him, but would not make a fuss.  The offense was
comparatively old, and men did not pursue other people's stale
vendettas.  The beginning and end of vengeance was a threatening
gesture.  He knew just what that broad-shouldered man was saying, and
thinking.  He was a scoundrel, he deserved flogging.  If he had been
on hand when the girl squealed, he would have torn the heart out of
the offender.  But he wasn't there; and the girl had shown both her
purity and her intelligence by preferring his gentle courtship to the
violent love-making of Ronnie Morelle.  In a sense the incident was
subtly flattering to the broad-shouldered young man.

Ronnie was not seeing Evie in these days, he was more pleasingly
engaged.  The new game was infinitely more intriguing, an opponent
better armed for the fight and offering a more glorious triumph.

But Steppe's warning piqued him.  Sault!  His lips curled in
derision.  That nigger!  That half-caste jail-bird!

He wrote to Evie that night making an appointment.




IV

"You don't know how happy I was when I found your letter at the store
this morning.  The manager doesn't like girls to get letters, he is
an awful fossil, but he's rather keen on me.  I told him your letters
were from an uncle who isn't friends with mother."

"What a darling little liar you are!" said Ronnie amused.  "My dear,
I've missed you terribly.  I shall have to give up my writing, if it
is going to keep me from my girl."

She snuggled closer to his side as they walked slowly through the
gloom to her favorite spot.  She did not tell him how she had sat
there every evening, braving the importunities of those less
attractive ghouls who haunt the park in the hours of dusk.

"There have been times," said Ronnie when they had found chairs and
drawn them to the shadow of a big elm, "when I felt that I could
write no more unless I saw you for a moment.  But I set my teeth and
worked.  I pretend sometimes that you are sitting on the other side
of the table and I look up and talk to you."

"You are like Christina," said the delighted girl, "she makes up
things like that.  Would you have liked to see me really walk into
the room and sit down opposite to you?"

He held her more tightly.  "Nine-tenths of my troubles would vanish,"
he said fervently, "and I could work--by heaven, how I should work if
I had the inspiration of your company!  I wish you weren't such a
dear little puritan.  I'm half inclined to engage a housekeeper if
only to chaperon you."

He waited for a rejoinder, but it did not come.

"You have such queer ideas about how people should behave," he said.
"In fact you are awfully old-fashioned, darling."

"Am I--I suppose I am."

"Why, the modern girl goes everywhere, bachelor parties and
dances--chaperons are about as much out of date as the dodo."

"What is a dodo?"

"A bird--a sort of duck."

She gurgled with laughter.  "You funny boy--"

"You know Sault, don't you?  Isn't he a great friend of yours?"

She struggled up out of his arms.  "Friend!  Of course not.  He is a
great friend of Christina's but not of mine.  He is so old and
funny-looking.  He has gray hair and he is quite dark--when I say
dark, I mean he is not a negro, but--well, dark."

"I understand.  Not a friend of yours?"

"Of course not.  There are times when I can't stand him!  He doesn't
read or write, did you know that?  Of course you do--and he has been
in prison, you told me that, too.  If mother knew she would have a
fit.  Why do you talk about him, Ronnie?"

"I've no special reason, only--"

"Only what, has he been talking about me?"

"Not to me, of course--he told a friend of mine that he didn't like
you to know me.  It was a surprise to me that he was aware we were
friends.  Did you tell him?"

"Me--I?  Of course not.  I never heard of such nerve!  How dare he!"

"S-sh--don't get angry, darling.  I'm sure he meant well.  You have
to do something for me, Evie dear."

"Talking about me--!"

"What is the use?"  He bent his head and kissed her.  "It will be
easy for you to say that you've only met me once or twice--and that
you are not seeing me any more."

"But you--you _will_ see me, Ronnie?"

"Surely.  You don't suppose that anything in the world will ever come
between us, do you?  Not fifty Saults."

"It is Christina!" she said.  "How mean of her to discuss me with
Sault!  And I've done so much for her; brought her books from the
store and given her little things--I do think it is deceitful of her."

"Will you do as I ask?"

"Of course, Ronnie darling.  I'll tell her that I've given you up.
But she is terribly sharp and I must be careful.  I sleep in the same
room, ours is a very small house.  I used to have a room of my own
until Sault came--the horrid old man.  He is in love with Christina.
It does seem ridiculous, doesn't it, a man like that?  Christina says
she isn't, but really--she is so deceitful."

"Will you tell her what I suggest?" he insisted.

"Yes--I'll tell her.  As for Mr. Sault--"

"Leave me to deal with Mr. Sault," said Ronnie grandly.

Evie reached home, her little brain charged with conflicting
emotions.  Her relief at meeting the man again, the happiness that
meeting had brought, her resentment at Sault's unwarranted
interference, her hurt from Christina's supposed duplicity and breach
of confidence, each contended for domination and each in turn
triumphed.

"I have given up Ronnie and I am not going to meet him again," she
said as she entered the room.

She was without finesse and Christina, instantly alert, was not
impressed.  "This is very sudden.  What has happened?"

"I've given him up!"  Evie slammed her hat down on a rickety
dressing-table.  She had no intention of letting the matter rest
there.  Her annoyance with Sault must be expressed.

"If a girl cannot have a friendship without her own sister and her
sister's beastly friends making up all sorts of beastly stories about
her and breaking their sacred word, too, by telling beastly people
about their private affairs, then she'd better give up having
friendships," she said a trifle incoherently.

"I want to sort that out," said Christina, frowning, "the only thing
I'm perfectly sure about is that somebody is beastly.  Do you mean
that people have been talking about you and your--Ronnie?"

Evie glowered at her.  "You know--you know!" she blurted tremulously.
"You and Sault between you, trying to interfere in my--interfering in
my affairs."

"Oh," said Christina, "is that all?"

"Is that all!  Don't you think it enough, parting Ronnie and I?
Breaking my heart, that is what you're doing!" she wailed.  "I'll
never speak to Sault again.  The old murderer--that's what he is, a
murderer!  I'm going to tell mother and have him chucked out of the
house.  We're not safe.  Some night he'll come along with a knife and
cut our throats.  A nigger murderer," she screamed.  "He may be good
enough to be your fancy man, but he's not good enough for me!"

"Open the window and tell the street all about it," suggested
Christina.  "You'll get an audience in no time.  Go along!  Open the
window!  They would love to hear.  Every woman in this street screams
her trouble sooner or later.  The woman across the road was shouting
'murder' all last night.  Be fashionable, Evie.  Ronnie would love to
know that you made a hit in Walter Street."

Evie was weeping now.  "You're horrible and vulgar, and I wish I was
dead!  You've--you've parted Ronnie and I--you and Sault!"

"I don't think so," said Christina quietly, "my impression is that
you are saying what Ronnie told you to say."

"I swear--" began Evie.

"Don't swear, Evie, screech.  It is more convincing.  Ronnie told you
to say that you had given him up.  What did Ambrose Sault do?"

"He went to a friend of Ronnie's with a lot of lies--about me and
Ronnie.  And you must have told him, Christina.  It was mean, mean,
mean of you!"

"He didn't want telling.  He heard you the other night when you were
having hysterics and yelling 'Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie!' at the top of your
voice.  You did everything except give Ronnie's address and telephone
number.  Apart from that I did tell him.  I wanted to know the kind
of man you're raving about.  And your Ronnie is just dirt."

"Don't dare to say that--don't dare!"

"If mother didn't sleep like a dormouse she'd hear you--some people
think they can make black white if they shout 'black' loudly enough.
Ronald Morelle has a bad reputation with girls.  I don't care if you
foam at the mouth, Evie, I'm going to say it.  He is a blackguard!"

"Sault told you!  Sault told you!"  Evie's voice had a shrill thin
edge to it.  "I know he did--a murderer--a nigger murderer, that is
what he is.  Not fit to live under the same roof as me--I shall tell
Ronnie what he said--I'll tell him tomorrow, and then you'll see!"

"As you are permanently parted, I don't see how you will have an
opportunity of telling him," said Christina.  "I could have told him
myself, today, I saw him."

"Saw him, how?" Evie was surprised into interest.

"With my eyes.  Mr. Sault took me into Kensington Gardens and I saw
him--he pointed him out to me."

Evie smiled contemptuously.  "That is where you and your damned Sault
were wrong," she said in triumph.  "Ronnie has been working in his
flat all the afternoon!  He was writing an article for _The
Statesman_!"

"He didn't seem to be working very hard when I saw him," said
Christina unmoved, "unless he was dictating his article to Miss
Merville.  They were driving together.  Mr. Sault said: 'There is
Morelle'--"

"He should have said 'Mister'."

"And I saw him.  He is good-looking; the best looking man I have ever
seen."

"It wasn't Ronnie--I don't mean that Ronnie isn't good looking.  He's
lovely.  But it couldn't have been him.  Besides, he hates that
Merville girl, at least he doesn't like her.  You are only saying
this to make me jealous.  How was he dressed?"

"So far as I could see, he wore a long-tailed coat--he certainly had
a top hat.  Mr. Sault said that he thought he had been to Lady
Somebody-or-other's garden party.  Mr. Steppe was going, but couldn't
get away."

"Now I know it wasn't Ronnie!  He was wearing a blue suit--no, he
hadn't changed his clothes.  He told me he didn't dress until an hour
before he met me.  Sault is a--he must have been mistaken."

Before she went to bed she came over to say "good night."

"I'm sorry I lost my temper, Chris."

"My dear, if you lose nothing else, I shall be happy."

"I hate your insinuations, Christina!  Some day you will find out
what a splendid man Ronnie is--and then you'll be surprised."

"I shall," admitted Christina, and later, when Evie was dropping into
sleep, "Who did Ambrose kill?"

"Eh--?  I don't know.  Somebody in Paris--"  Another long silence.

"He must have been a terrible villain!"

"Who, Sault?"

"No, the man he killed," said Christina.

She lay awake for a long time.  It was two o'clock when she heard his
key in the lock.  She raised her head, listening to the creaking of
the stairs as he came up.  He had to pass her room and she whispered:
"Good night, Ambrose!"

"Good night, Christina."

She blew a kiss at the door.




V

Mr. Steppe, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, leaned out of the
window of his car and waved his yellow glove in greeting and Beryl,
who was just about to enter her own machine, stepped back upon the
sidewalk and waited.  She felt a little twinge of impatience, for she
was on her way to the Horse Show and Ronald.

"Is the doctor in--good!  He can wait--where are you off to, Beryl,
huh?  Looking perfectly lovely too.  I often wonder what those old
back-veld relations of mine would say if they ever saw a girl like
you.  Their women are just trek-oxen--mustn't say 'cows,' huh?  Are
you in a great hurry?"

"Not a great hurry," she smiled, "but I think father is expecting
you."

"I know.  But he'll not be worried if I'm late.  Drive me somewhere.
I want to talk."

She jumped at the opportunity of placing a time-limit on the
conversation.

"Drive to Regents Park, round the inner circle and back to the
house," she ordered, and Mr. Steppe handed her into the car.

"I want to have a little chat about your father," he said, greatly to
her surprise.  He had never before spoken more than two consecutive
sentences in reference to Dr. Merville.

"What I tell you, Beryl, is in confidence," he said.  "I'm not sure
whether I ought to tell you at all, but you're a sensible girl, huh?
No nonsense.  That is how a woman should be.  The doctor has lost a
lot of money--you know that?"

"I didn't know," she answered in alarm, "but I thought father
confined his investments to your companies?"

"Yes--so he has.  He has taken up a lot of shares--against my advice.
He is carrying--well I wouldn't like to tell you the figure.  He
bought them--against my advice.  Most of my stock is only partly paid
up.  He is carrying nearly a million shares in one concern or
another.  That is all right.  You can carry millions, always
providing there is a market, and that you can sell at a profit, or
else that there isn't any need to call up the remainder of the
capital.  That need has arisen in the case of two companies in which
he is heavily involved.  Now, Beryl, you are not to say a word about
what I have told you."

"But--I don't quite follow what you have said.  Does it mean that
father will be called upon to pay large sums of money?"  He nodded.

"Or else--?"

"There is no 'or else'," said Steppe.  "The capital has to be called
in, in justice to the shareholders and the doctor must pay.  Somebody
must pay.  In fact, I am going to pay.  That was the reason I was
calling on him today."

"He has been very worried lately," said Beryl in a troubled tone.  "I
don't know how to thank you, Mr. Steppe.  Is it a big sum?"

"It runs to hundreds of thousands," said Steppe. "Very few can lay
their hands on that amount, huh?  Jan Steppe!  They know me in the
city, hate me, would slaughter me, but they don't despise me.  I can
sign cheques for a million and they'd be honored."

"But father must make some arrangement to pay you, Mr. Steppe--" she
began.

"That is nothing.  The shares may rise in value--there is no telling
what may happen with the market in an optimistic mood.  But I thought
I would let you know.  Steppe isn't a bad fellow, huh?"

She heaved a long sigh.  "No--you are kind, most kind.  I wish father
wouldn't touch the stock market.  Temperamentally, he is unfitted for
a gambler.  He is so easily depressed.  Can't you persuade him, Mr.
Steppe?"

"If you say the word, I'll stop him," said Steppe.  "There is nothing
I wouldn't do for you, Beryl."  She was silent.

"I'm grateful," she said, as the car was heading for the house.  "I
cannot put myself under any bigger obligation--father must do as he
wishes.  But if you could help him with advice--?"

It occurred to her then, that if he could, at a word, arrest the
speculative tendencies of Dr. Merville, why had he contented himself
with "advice" when her father had made his disastrous investments?

Saying good-bye to him at the door of the house, Beryl drove on to
Olympia a disturbed and anxious girl.  Steppe watched the car out of
sight before he mounted the steps and rang the bell.

"You saw us, huh?  Yes, I wanted to talk to Beryl and I knew that you
wouldn't mind waiting.  I've got to call up the unpaid capital of
Brakpan Mines and Toledo Deeps."

The doctor moved uneasily.  "Couldn't you wait a little while?" he
asked nervously.  "The shares are moving.  They went up a fraction
yesterday--which means that there are buyers."

"I was the buyer," said Steppe.  "I took a feeler at the market.  I
bought five hundred--and I could have had five hundred thousand at
the price.  They were falling over one another to sell.  No, I'm
afraid I've got to make a call and you'll have to take up your
shares, huh?  Well, I'm going to let you have the money."

"That is good of you--"

"Not at all.  I must keep your name sweet and clean, Merville.  I am
going to marry Beryl."

The doctor opened a silver box and took out a cigar with a shaking
hand.  "Beryl is a very dear girl," he said.  "Have you spoken to
her?"

"No, there is plenty of time.  I don't want to scare her--let her get
used to me, Merville, huh?  That's that.  You are crossing with me
tonight, huh?  Good, I hate the Havre route, but you can sleep on
board and that saves time.  Abrahams is coming from Vienna with the
Bulgarian concession.  I'm inclined to float it."

Ronnie was waiting in the main entrance when the girl arrived.  In
some respects he was a model escort.  He never expected a woman to be
punctual and had trained himself in the art of patient waiting.

"No, really, I haven't been here very long," he replied to her
apology, "and you, of all women, are worth waiting for."

"You are a dear.  I don't believe you, but still you are a dear.  I'm
so sick of life today, Ronnie--don't ask me why.  Amuse me."

"How is the doctor?" he queried, as they were shown into their seats.

"He is going to Paris tonight with Mr. Steppe," she said.  "I'm
rather glad.  Two or three days abroad will do him a lot of good.
There aren't many people here this afternoon, Ronnie."

"Most of the swells are at Ascot," he explained, "the night seance is
crowded.  Gone to Paris, eh?" The news made him thoughtful.

She drove him back to the house to tea.  Dr. Merville was out and was
not returning to dinner.  The maid said he had left a letter in his
study.  Beryl found it to be a note saying he was unlikely to see her
before he went; his bag would be called for, he added.

"My hard-hearted parent has gone without saying good-bye," she said.
"Take me out to dinner, Ronnie.  After, I would like to see a revue.
I feel un-intellectual today; I'm in the mood when I want to see
people with red noses and baggy trousers.  And I want to be in a box.
I love boxes, since--"

Ronald Morelle walked home from Park Crescent stopping at a messenger
office to scribble a note.

"It is at a drug store in Knightsbridge," he said.  "I want the boy
to give it to the young lady in the pay desk.  Perhaps he had better
make a purchase--a cake of soap, if that is the boy," he smiled upon
the diminutive messenger, "and let him hand the letter to the lady
when he puts in his bill."

He came to the flat to find François laying out his dress-clothes.

"Finish what you are doing and go home.  I shall not want you this
evening," he said.  "Stay--have a bottle put on ice.  You can lay the
small table.  You might have bought some flowers.  I hate flowers,
but--get some.  You can throw them away tomorrow."

"Yes, m'sieur," said his imperturbable man, "for how many shall I lay
supper?"

"For three," answered Ronnie.

It was a convention that he invariably entertained two guests, but
François had never had to wash more than two used glasses.




VI

Beryl was still in the drawing-room and the tea table had not been
cleared when Ambrose Sault came for the doctor's bag.  She heard the
sound of his voice in the hall and came to the head of the stairs.

"Is that you, Mr. Sault?  Won't you come up for a moment?"

The doctor had telephoned to Moropulos, he explained, asking him to
take the grip to his club.  She gathered that it was usual for
Ambrose to carry out these little commissions.

"How is Miss Colebrook?--has she forgiven me for acting the part of
district visitor?  She is a nice girl and her hair is such a
wonderful color."

"The osteopath says she will get well," replied Ambrose simply, "and
when I went in to see her this morning she told me she really thought
that she felt better already.  She has the heart of a lion, Miss
Merville."

"She is certainly brave."  Beryl knew she was a brute because she
could not work up an enthusiastic interest in Christina Colebrook.

"It will be wonderful if she is cured."  Sault's voice was hushed.
"I daren't let myself think about it--in fact, I shall be more
bitterly disappointed than she, if the treatment does not succeed."

"You are very fond of her?"  She had been examining his face as he
spoke, wondering what there was in him that she had seen at their
first meeting which reminded her of Ronnie.  There was not a vestige
of likeness between them.  This man's face, for all its strength, was
coarse; the eyes were the only fine features it possessed.  And the
skin--there was a yellow-brown tinge in it.  She remembered her
father saying once that people who had negro blood in their veins
betrayed their origin even though they were quite white, by a dark
half-moon on their finger-nails.  Whilst he was speaking, he moved
his hands so that his nails were discernible.  They were ugly nails,
broad and ragged of edge--yes, there it was--a brown crescent showing
against the deep pink.

"Yes, I'm fond of her.  She is lovable.  I haven't met anybody like
Christina before."

Why was she annoyed?  Perhaps "annoyed" hardly described her emotion.
She was disappointed in him.  Her attitude toward Sault was
enigmatical--it was certainly capricious.  She was a little nauseated
and was glad when he went.

Sault carried the suitcase to the club and left it with a porter.  He
wished he had an excuse for calling every day at the house--the sight
of her exalted him, raised him instantly to a higher plane.

He saw Evie walking home in front of him; she saw him, stopped and
became interested in a shop window.  She always avoided him in the
street and would not dream of walking with him.  In the kitchen, to
which she followed him, she condescended to speak.

"You were looking very pleased with yourself when I saw you in High
Street, Mr. Sault," she said.

"Was I--yes, I was feeling good.  You're home early tonight, Evie."

Mrs. Colebrook had a washing day and was at her labors in the
scullery, and Evie could flare up without reproof.

"I'm so glad you notice when I come in, and go out!" she said.  "It
is nice to know that all your movements are watched.  I suppose I
ought to ask your permission when I stay out late?  We always like to
please the lodger!"

He looked down into the pretty flushed face and smiled gently.  "I
believe you are trying to be cross with me, Evie," he said
good-naturedly, "and I don't feel like being cross with anybody.  My
dear, it is no business of mine--"

"Don't call me 'my dear', if you please!  You have a nerve to 'my
dear' me!  A man like you!"

Sault's knuckle touched his chin awkwardly.  "I didn't mean to be
offensive--"

"You _are_ offensive!  You are the most beastly offensive person I
know!  You go prying and spying into my business and telling lies
about gentlemen whose boots you're not fit to blacken."

"Hello, hello!"  Mrs. Colebrook stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping
her soapy hands on her apron.  "What's this, Evie?  Telling lies
about you?  Mr. Sault would not tell a lie to save his life.  What
gentleman?  He'd have to be a pretty good gentleman for Mr. Sault to
blacken his boots."

Evie wilted before her mother's fiery gaze and, turning, slammed from
the room.

"It is nothing, Mrs. Colebrook," smiled Ambrose.  "I made her
angry--something I said.  It was my fault entirely.  Now what about
those blankets?"

"You're not going to wash any blankets," said Mrs. Colebrook, "and
Evie has got to say she is sorry."

"I washed blankets before you were born, Mrs. Colebrook, or soon
after, at any rate.  I promised you I'd come home and help you."

He went with her to the little scullery with its copper and wash tub,
she protesting.

"I didn't think you meant it," she said, "and I can't let you do it.
You go into the kitchen and I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Blankets," said Ambrose, rolling up his sleeves.

Evie burst into her room, red with anger.  She hated Sault more than
ever.  She said so, flinging her hat wildly on the bed.

"Oh--was that you who was strafing?" asked Christina.

"I gave him a piece of my mind," said Evie with satisfaction.

"That was generous, considering the size of it."  Christina bent
outward and laid down the paper and stylograph she had been using.

"I couldn't have done that a few days ago," she said, "and what has
poor Ambrose done?"

"He had the cheek to tell me I was home very early, as if he was the
lord of the house!"

"Aren't you home early?"

"It is no business of his, the interfering old devil!"

Christina eyed her critically.  "You came home in a bad temper," she
said.  "I suppose giving up Ronnie has got on your nerves."

"I haven't given him up!" Evie snapped, "only he's busy tonight."

Christina chewed a toffee ball reflectively.  "That man is certainly
industrious," she said.  "They will have to bring out new papers to
print all he writes.  Does he find time to eat?"

Evie lifted her nose scornfully.  "What did you say to my Ambrose?"

"I told you."

"You said that you gave him a piece of your mind--that doesn't mean
anything to me.  Did you call him a murderer?"

"Of course I didn't--I hope I'm a lady."

"I've often hoped so, and maybe one of these days my hopes will be
realized.  So you didn't call him a murderer?  You lost a great
opportunity.  Don't be offensive to him again, Evie," she said
quietly.

Evie did not reply.  When Christina spoke in that tone of voice she
was frightened of her.

"What is Ambrose doing now?"

"I don't know--in the kitchen, I suppose, guzzling food.  And I'm
starving!  But I won't sit down at the same table as a black man, I
won't!"

"Don't be a fool, Evie.  Go down and get some food.  You can bring it
up here and eat it.  And, Evie--Ambrose is a very dear friend of mine
and I dislike hearing you call him a 'black man'.  He is almost as
white as you and I.  His great grandfather was an Indian."

"If you don't like to hear me say unpleasant things about your
friends, don't say them about mine."

Here, Evie thought, not without reason, that she had a point which
was worth laboring.  She was astonished when Christina surrendered
without firing another shot.

"Perhaps you are right, dear.  Go and get something to eat."

Evie returned almost immediately with the news that the kitchen was
empty and that she had seen one whom she was pleased to describe as
"the enemy" bending over a wash-tub, his arms white with lather.

"Do you think he is making up to mother?" she asked, as that
interesting possibility presented itself.

Christina choked.  "Don't say funny things when I'm eating candy,"
she begged.




VII

The revue had reached its seventh scene before Beryl and her escort
were shown into the big stage box of the Pavilion.  She had hardly
taken her seat before she saw a familiar face in the stalls.

"Isn't that Mr. Moropulos?" she asked, and following the direction of
her eyes he nodded.  The Greek did not appear to have noticed them.
He was conspicuous as being the only man in that row of the stalls
who was not wearing evening dress.

"Yes, that is Moropulos.  Don't let him see you, Beryl."

Apparently Mr. Moropulos did not identify the pair, for though he
turned his head in their direction he showed no sign of recognition.
Half-way through the last part of the revue, he disappeared and they
did not see him again.

"And now home.  It has been a jolly afternoon and evening," said
Beryl as they came out.

Ronnie was looking round for his car.  "What a fool I am," he said.
"I told Parker not to wait--for some extraordinary reason I imagined
your car would be here.  We'll have to take a taxi."

The cab had hardly started before he tapped at the window and leaning
out, gave a fresh direction.

"Come home and have some supper.  I've just remembered that I told
François I was bringing a couple of men home--told him early this
morning."

She hesitated.  "I can't stay very long," she said.  "No--nobody is
waiting up for me.  My maid never does--it spoils my enjoyment of a
dance if I think that I am keeping some poor girl out of her bed.
I'll come in for five minutes, dear."

His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him.  "Ronnie--I'm so
glad all this has come about, darling--I've run after you--I know I
have.  But I don't care--four years seems such an awful long time to
wait."

"An eternity," he breathed.

"And marriage is, as you say--in your immoral way--only a third party
sanction--it is silly."  He kissed her.  An automatic lift carried
them to the third floor and Ronnie went in switching on the lights.

"I wonder whether father will be angry," she asked, "if your man--"

"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap.  "He's never
here after nine.  This is my own room, Beryl--but you saw it when the
doctor brought you here to dinner."

She walked over to the big black table and sat down.

"Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are,
Ronnie!  I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!"

He smiled indulgently.

"And there is your wicked Anthony!  He looks worse by artificial
light.  Now, Ronnie, I really must go."

"Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry
wine--?"

The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed.

"It is the last bottle of that wine.  Jerry will be furious when he
comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone."

Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart.
Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation
for gallantry.

"Well--I'll eat just a little--and then you must take me home.  You
shouldn't have paid off the cab."

He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen.  She sat on the edge of
one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the
room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass.

She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him.  "No more,
dear."

A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking.
"No--!"  And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold
her.  She relaxed, unresisting.

"I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let
me go, darling--please."  But he held her the tighter and she did not
deny his greedy lips.




VIII

Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed.  Pulling
on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him
the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors.

"I don't want you here today--where is your friend?"

"In the pantry, sir."

"Well, take her with you--ah, François, listen.  Turn these women out
and then go out yourself--go to the city--and get--buy anything you
like, but don't come back before eleven--no twelve."

He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room.  Beryl
was lying with her head in the crook of her arm.  She was not
asleep--nor crying, as he had feared.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling--I must have fallen asleep."

"What is the time?"  She did not turn but spoke into the pillow.

"Eight--curse it!  You can't go home in evening dress."

"Why not?"

She struggled up, her face averted.

"It is the best way," she said, "will you get me a cab?"

When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the mirror.  "It
was very foolish," she remarked without emotion.

"There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an Albert Hall ball
last night," said Ronnie, "and it is only eight--shall I come down
with you?"

She shook her head.  "No--just show me how to work the elevator.  An
Albert Hall ball?  Where could I have been after that finished?  You
lie better than I, Ronnie."

"Having breakfast--lots of people make a special function of
breakfast after those shows."

"All right--show me how the elevator works."

To her maid a quarter of an hour later: "I'm going to bed, Dean, and
if Mr. Morelle rings up, will you tell him that I am very sorry I
cannot see him this morning.  You can bring me a cup of
chocolate--yes, I've had breakfast, but bring me some chocolate."

She was standing by the window in a silk wrap when the maid brought
the tray.  Beryl did not look round.

"Put it down, Dean--I will ring when I want you."

She walked across the room and locked the door.  Then she came to the
mirror and looked for a long time at herself.  "Yes--Beryl--it _is_
you!  I was hoping it was somebody else!"




IX

That same morning Mr. Moropulos asked a question of Ambrose Sault.

"What exposure should you give to a photograph taken, say, soon after
eight o'clock in the morning?"

"What sort of a morning?"

"This morning."

Ambrose glanced out of the window.

"You could get a snap shot on a twenty-fifth of a second," he said.

Mr. Moropulos produced a folding kodak from his pocket.  "Would this
stop be wide enough?"

Ambrose took the camera in his hand.  "Yes," he said.  "What were you
taking, a scene or a figure?"

"A figure," said Mr. Moropulos, "a lady in evening dress."

Ambrose smiled.  "Eight o'clock is a funny time to photograph a lady
in evening dress," he said.

"An amusing time--if one hadn't been waiting up all night to take it.
I was here at five.  Yes--I came back for the camera.  I took a
chance of missing the lady, but even if I had it wouldn't have
mattered.  But eight o'clock!" he laughed gleefully, "how very
obliging.  Sault, my Ambrosial man, I am going to sleep."

"I think you need it," said Ambrose.

He did all the work of the house, even to making Mr. Moropulos' bed
and he was glad of the opportunity to "spring-clean" the
sitting-room.  He only interrupted his labors to cut a crust of bread
and a slice of cheese for his lunch.

At five o'clock in the afternoon the telephone bell rang for the
first time that day.  "Is that Mr. Moropulos--is that you, Mr. Sault?"

"Yes, lady."

He recognized her voice instantly and his heart leaped within him.

"I'm so glad--will you come to the house please?"

"Yes--I'll come right away."  He hung up the receiver as Moropulos
strolled in yawning.

"He-e!  Who was the caller?"

"A friend of mine," said Sault.

"Didn't know you had any friends--are you going?  Make me some coffee
before you go, Sault."

"Make it yourself," said Ambrose.

Moropulos grinned after him.  "I'd give a lot of money to stick a
knife into that big chest of yours, my good Ambrose," he said
pleasantly.

Marie opened the door to the untidy visitor, showing him straight to
the drawing-room and Beryl came halfway to him, taking his hand in
both of hers.

"I'm so glad you've come--I had to send for you--do you mind?  I want
to talk to you--about nothing in particular--I'm nervy.  Can't you
tell from my hand?"

The hand in his was shaking, he felt the quiver of it.  And she
looked pale.  Why had she sent for him?  She was amazed at herself.
Perhaps it was his strength she wanted; a rock on which she might
rebuild the shattered fabric of her reason.  She had been thinking of
him all the afternoon.  Ronnie never came to her mind.  He was
incidental--reality lay with the coarse-featured man whom she had
likened to a Cæsar.

"I don't want you to do anything for me, except be here.  Just for a
little while."  She was pleading like a frightened child.

"I am here--I will stay here until you want me to go," said Ambrose,
and smiled into her eyes.

"Mr. Sault, I do so wish to talk about something.  It won't hurt you
will it?" She had only released his hands to pull a chair forward.
Opposite to him she sat, this time both of her hands in his.  Why?
She gave up asking the question.

"You killed somebody, is it true--I knew it was true before I asked
you.  Did it injure you--make you think less of yourself--did you
loathe the man you killed because he made you do it?  You are looking
at me so strangely--you don't think I am mad, do you?"

"I don't think you are mad.  No, I didn't even hate the man.  He
deserved death.  I did not wish to kill him, but there was no other
way.  There must be that definite end to some problems--death.  There
is no other.  I believe implicitly in it--destruction.  A man who is
so vile that he kills in his greed or his lust!  Who takes an
innocent and a helpful life--helpful to the world and its people--you
must destroy him.  The law does this, so that the brain behind his
wicked hands shall not lead him to further mischief.  If you have a
sheep-dog that worries sheep you shoot him.  There is no other way.
Or he will breed other sheep dogs with the same vice.  Most problems
are soluble by various processes.  Some of them drastic, some of them
commonplace.  A few, a very few, can only be ended that way.  My man
was one of these.  I won't tell you the story--he was a bad man and I
killed him.  But I didn't hate him, nor hate myself.  And I think no
less of myself--and no more.  I did what I thought was right--I've
never regretted it, but I've never been proud of it."

She listened, fascinated.  The hands in his were quiet now, there was
a hue in her cheeks.

"How fine to feel like that--to detach yourself--but why should you
regret?  You injured no one.  Except the man and--was he married?"

He nodded.  "I didn't know at the time.  She came forward afterwards
and paid the expenses of my defense--she hated him--it was very sad."

They were quiet together until she lifted her head and spoke.  "Mr.
Sault--I'm going to ask you another strange question.  Have you, in
all your life, ever been in love?"

"Yes," he said instantly.

"With a woman, just because she is a woman?  As I might love a man
because he has all the outward attractions of a man?  Have you loved
her just for her beauty and despised her mean soul and her vicious
mind, and--and despising--still loved?"

She hung upon his words, and when he said "no" her heart sank.

"No--no, I couldn't do that.  That would be--horrible!"

He shuddered.  She had made Ambrose Sault shudder!  Ambrose Sault who
spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered at something, which, to him,
was worse than murder!  The fragrance of sin which had held to her
and supported her through the day, was stale and sour and filthy.
She shrank away from him, but he held her hands tightly.

"Let me go, please," her voice sounded faint.

"In a moment--look at me, lady."

She raised her eyes to his and they held them.

"I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed I would say;
I never thought the words would come to me.  Look at me, lady, a
rough man--old--I'm more than fifty, ugly, with an old man's shape
and an old man's hands.  Illiterate--I love you.  I shall never see
you again--I love you.  You are beautiful--the most beautiful lady I
have seen.  But it isn't that.  There is something in you that I
love--I don't know what--soul--spirit--individuality.  I hope I
haven't revolted you--I don't think I have."

"Ambrose!"  She clutched at the hands he was drawing away.  "I must
tell you--there is nothing to love but what you see, there is no
soul--no soul--nothing but weakness and a pitiful cowardice.  I love
a man who is like that, too.  Foul, foul!  But beautiful to look
at--and, Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take."

Not a muscle of his face moved.

"I have given him everything--this very day--that is why I sent for
you.  There must be something in what you say--a spirit in me
responds to you--oh, Ambrose, I love him!"

She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat.  There was a
scent of some pungent oil--turpentine.  But he did not speak.  His
big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair.

"You think I'm--what do you think I am?" she asked.

"You know," he patted her shoulder gently.  "I suppose you are
wondering what I am feeling?  I will tell you this--I am not hurt.  I
can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize.  If you were
different, you wouldn't like me to say that."

He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes.
"How very beautiful it is!" he said.

She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears.

"I said I wouldn't see you again.  Perhaps I won't--but if you want
me send for me."

She dried her eyes.  "I'm a weakling--I wish I was wicked and didn't
care--I don't care, really.  What has happened is--" she shrugged,
"it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me--nearly
driven me mad.  You are going now, Ambrose--that is so lovely in
you--you even know when to go!"

She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder.  She
did not want to kiss or be kissed.  And she knew that he felt as she
did.

"Come to me when I want you--I shall be busy inventing lies for the
next few days.  Good-bye, Ambrose."  When he had gone, she realized
that no man's name had been mentioned.  Perhaps he knew.




X

For the first time in his life Ronald Morelle was regretting an
adventure.  All day long he had been trying to write, with the result
that his wastepaper basket was full of torn or twisted sheets, even
as the silver ash-tray on the table was heaped with cigarette ends.
He had gone half a dozen times to the telephone to call up Merville's
house and had stopped short of giving the number.  Then he tried to
write her a note.  He could think of nothing to say beyond the
flamboyant beginning.  What was the use of writing?  And what was she
thinking about it all?  He wished--and he wished again.  He had made
a hopeless fool of himself.  Why had he done it?  For the truth
unfolded as the hours passed, that an end must be found to this
affair.  In other cases _finis_ had been written at his discretion,
sometimes cheerfully, sometimes with tears and recriminations.  There
had been instances that called for solid compensations.  Beryl was
not to be ended that way.  Besides, he had half-promised her--he grew
hot at the very thought of matrimony and in the discomfort of the
prospect, the pleasant irresponsibilities of bachelorhood and the
features that went to the making of his life, seemed too good to lose.

In such a mood, he thought of Evie Colebrook.  How perfectly
attractive she was; he could admire her virtue and coldbloodedly
compare her with Beryl--to Beryl's disparagement.  He was hemmed in
by his new responsibility; ached to be free from fetters that were
still warm from the forge.  Late at night he wrote two letters, one
to Beryl, the other and the longer to Evie.

Beryl had hers with her morning tea, saw who it was from the moment
the maid pulled aside the curtains and let in the morning sunlight.
She turned it over in her hand--now she knew.  So that was how she
felt about a letter from Ronnie.  Not so much as a tremor, not a
quicker pulsation of heart.

She opened the envelope and read:


"_My very dearest_: I don't know what to write to you or how.  I
adore the memory of you.  I am shaken by the calamity--for you.
Command me, I will do as you wish.  I will not see you again though
it breaks my heart."


It was written on a plain card, unsigned.  She sent him a wire that
morning: "Come to tea."

In answer came a hurried note by special delivery.


"I cannot: I dare not trust myself.  I am overwhelmed by the sense of
my treachery.  That I should have brought a second's unhappiness to
you!"


Unsigned.  Ronnie never signed or dated such epistles.

She read the note and laughed.  Yes, she could laugh.

On the third evening, her father returned in a most cheerful frame of
mind.  He had carried through a business deal, he and Steppe.  And he
had enjoyed the trip, having met a number of French medical men who
had entertained him.

"They were charming, and the new Pasteur laboratories were most
fascinating.  We feared you would have had a dull time, Beryl.  I
hope Ronnie didn't desert you!"

"I am afraid he didn't," she said, and the doctor beamed.  "You're
not too fond of him, I am glad of that for he is rather a rascal.  I
suppose young men, some young men, are like that--conscienceless."

"Did you have a good crossing?" she asked, and turned the
conversation into a more pleasant way.

"Sault was to have met us at the station but he did not turn up.
Perhaps Moropulos is drinking.  One never knows when Moropulos will
break out.  He is afraid of Steppe."

"Who isn't?" she asked with a grimace.

The doctor scratched his cheek meditatively.  "I don't know--I'm not
afraid of him.  Naturally, I shouldn't like a rough and tumble with
him, physically or verbally.  Ronnie, of course, is in the most
abject terror of him.  The only man who isn't--er--reluctant to
provoke him, is Sault."  He chuckled.

"Steppe told me that he had a row with Sault over some girl that
Ronnie had been carrying on with--the daughter of the woman
Colebrook, my dear.  Apparently, Sault went to our friend Jan and
told him to put a stop to it, and Steppe was naturally annoyed, and
do you know what Sault said?"  Her eyes were shining.

"He told Steppe that in certain contingencies he would kill him,
before his servant could reach him; to his face!"

"What did Mr. Steppe think of it?" she found her voice to ask.

"Amused--and impressed, too.  He says Sault wouldn't tell a lie,
wouldn't do a mean thing to save his soul.  That is something of a
testimonial from a man like Steppe who, I am sorry to say, is
inclined to be a little uncharitable."

Beryl folded her serviette; she looked to be absorbed in the
operation.

"He was telling me that Sault was one of the finest mathematicians in
the country.  And he doesn't read or write!  Of course, he writes
figures and symbols perfectly.  He attends every lecture that he can
get to; a remarkable personality."

"Very."

"I thought you rather liked him?"

She started from her reverie.  "Who--Ambrose?"

"Ambrose!"

"That is his name, isn't it?"

"But, my dear," smiled the doctor indulgently, "you wouldn't call him
by his Christian name!  I think he would be rather annoyed to be
treated like a servant."

"I wasn't thinking of him as a servant."

They got up from the table together and she went with him as far as
his study door.

"What have you been doing with yourself--theatres?"

"Yes, and a ball.  An all-night affair.  I came home at eight."

"Humph--bad for you, that sort of thing."

She was sure it was.  It was bad to lie, too, but she was beyond
caring.  Ambrose never lied.  He would lie for her.  Ronnie also
would lie--for himself.  She mused and mused, thinking of
Sault--Ambrose Sault.  And the red-haired invalid.  And this sister
of hers whom Ambrose had gone to Steppe about--she laughed quietly.
She would have loved to have seen that contest of giants.  Could
Steppe be browbeaten?  It seemed impossible, and yet Ambrose had
cowed him.

She dreamed that night that she saw Ronald and Sault fighting with
reaping hooks--she woke up with a shiver.  For in her dream their
heads had been exchanged, and Ronnie's face smiled at her from
Sault's broad shoulders.  It was growing light, she found, when she
peeped through the curtains.  She went to bed again, but did not
sleep any more.

It was a coincidence that Ronald Morelle was also awake at that hour.
His new responsibility was weighing on him like a leaden weight.  She
would never let him go.  Her wire had terrified him.  "There's no end
to it!" he said with a groan, "no end."

He did not love Beryl; he loved nobody, but there were some girls
whom he wanted to see again and again.  Evie was one of that kind.
He did not want to see Beryl.  He pictured himself chained for life
to a woman who was now wholly without attraction.  To this misery was
added a new and unbelievable horror.

Steppe called just as Ronald was going out to lunch.  At any time
Steppe was an unwelcome visitor.  In the state of Ronnie's nerves, he
felt it impossible that he could support the strain of the big man's
company for five minutes.  He wished Steppe wouldn't barge in without
warning.  It was not gentlemanly.

"I'm awful glad to see you, Mr. Steppe; when did you get back?"

"Last night--I won't keep you a minute.  I'm on my way to make a call
on that swine Moropulos," he growled.  "I want to see you about
Beryl."

Ronald Morelle's heart missed a beat.  Had she told?  He turned white
at the thought.  Luckily Steppe was striding up and down the room,
hands in pockets, bearded chin on chest.

Ronnie's mouth had gone dry and he had a cold sinking feeling inside
him.  "Yes--about Beryl," he managed to say.

"You're a great friend of hers, huh?  Known her for a long time?"

Ronnie nodded.

"You have some influence with her?"

"I--I hope so--not a great influence--"

"I am going to marry Beryl.  The doctor has probably hinted to you
that I have plans in that quarter, huh?"

Ronnie swallowed.  "No," he said, "I didn't know--my congratulations."

"Keep 'em," said the other shortly, "they're not wanted yet.  You're
a great friend of hers, huh?  Go about with her a great deal?  I
suppose it is all right.  I'd pull the life out of you if it
wasn't--but Beryl is a good girl--what I want you to do is this; give
me a good name.  If you have any influence, use it.  Get that?"

"Certainly," Morelle found voice to say, "I'll do what I can."

"That's all right.  And, Morelle, when I'm married you won't be asked
to spend a great deal of time at my house.  You'll come when I invite
you.  That's straight, huh?  So long."

Ronald shut the door on him.




XI

What a mess!  What a perfect hell of a mess he was in.  He stood by
the window, biting his nails.  Suppose Beryl told?  He wiped his
forehead.  Girls had queer ideas about their duty in that respect.
He knew of cases.  One of those threatening gestures which had come
his way was the result of such a misguided act of confession on the
part of a girl whom he had treated very handsomely indeed.  A baser
case of ingratitude it would be difficult to imagine.  Beryl might.
She had principles.  Phew!

He heard the trill of the telephone in François' pantry.

"Mr. Moropulos," said François, emerging from his room.

Ronnie scowled.  "Tell him--no, put him through."  He laid down his
walking stick and gloves.

"Yes, Moropulos--good morning--lunch?  Well, I was going out to lunch
with some people."

Moropulos said that his business was important.

"All right--oh, anywhere--one of those little places in Soho."  He
slammed down the instrument viciously.  But this was a time to
consolidate his friends and their interests.  Not that Moropulos was
a friend, but he was useful and might be more so.

The Greek arrived at the restaurant to the minute and was looking
more spruce than usual.

"Have you seen Steppe?" was his first question.

"I understood he was on his way to see you--he seemed angry," said
Ronnie.

"Our dear Steppe is always angry," answered the Greek coolly.  "This
time, however, he has no cause.  If he has gone to my house, he will
not see me."

"What is the trouble?"

Moropulos shrugged.  "He has been informed by evil-minded people that
during his absence I was--well, not to put too fine a point on it,
very drunk."

"And were you?"

"On the contrary, at the very hour, when his spies informed him I was
dancing on a table in a low part of the east end, and shouting that
the Mackenzie report was a forgery--"

Ronnie went pale.  "Good God!  You never said that?" he gasped.

"Of course not.  If I had, it would be a serious thing for me.  I,
Paul Moropulos, tell you, Ronald Morelle, that it would be a
disastrous thing for me.  Just now my relations with dear Jan
are--er--strained.  I do not wish a breach."

"But surely if Steppe's men say--"

"'Let them say,'" quoted Moropulos, "it is what I say, and you say,
and somebody else says, that counts, for at the very moment I was
supposed to be misbehaving," he emphasized his words, "I was dining
with you and the lovely Miss Merville in your flat."

"What!  Why, that is a lie!"

"What is one lie worse than another?  Observe I give you the date; it
was one day before the charming Miss Merville spent the night with
you alone in your very beautiful flat."  Had the floor collapsed,
Ronald Morelle could not have received a worse shock.

"I recognize your embarrassment and sympathize with you," said
Moropulos, "but it is essential for my happiness and ultimate
prosperity, that both you and Miss Merville should testify that I
dined with you on the previous night."

Ronnie had nothing to say.  He had not yet realized the tremendous
import of the man's threat.

"I will save you a lot of trouble by telling you that I followed you
from the Pavilion to Knightsbridge.  I spent the whole of the night
outside, wondering when she would come out, and I photographed her as
she got into the cab.  The photograph, an excellent one, is now in a
secret place.  Steppe, I hope, will never see it," he added, looking
at his _vis-à-vis_ from under his eyelids.  "Steppe is angry with me;
how unjust!  It was impossible that I could have been making a fool
of myself, at the very hour we three together were talking of--what
were we talking of?--Greece, let us say, the academies.  Steppe would
not believe you, of course, but he would believe Miss Merville and a
great unpleasantness would be avoided.  I am sorry to make this
demand upon you, but you see how I am situated?  I swear to you that
I had no intention of using my knowledge.  It was an amusing little
secret of my own."

Ronald found his voice.  "Am I to tell--Miss Merville that you know?
That you have a photograph?"

Moropulos spread his hands.  "Why should she know?  It is not
necessary."

Ronnie was relieved.  It was something to be spared the scene which
would follow the disclosure that a third person was in their secret.
He asked for no proofs that Moropulos knew, and any thought of the
girl and what this meant to her, never entered his head.  If Steppe
knew!  He grew cold at the thought.  Steppe would kill him, pull his
life out of him.  Ronald Morelle was prepared to go a long way to
keep his master in ignorance.

"I will see Miss Merville," he said, and then feeling that a protest
was called for: "You have behaved disgracefully, Moropulos--to
blackmail me.  That is what it amounts to!"

"Not at all.  It was a simple matter to tell Steppe that on the night
in question I was waiting soberly outside your flat, watching his
interests.  He is immensely partial to Beryl Merville.  A confusion
of dates would not have been remarked; he would be so mad that the
lesser would be absorbed in the greater injury.  He, he would
forgive--you--"

Ronald shuddered.

In the afternoon he made his call.  "It is lucky finding you alone,
dear," he began, awkwardly for him, "you'll never guess what I've
been through during the past few days--"

She was very calm and self-possessed.  A shade paler, perhaps, but
she was of a type that pallor suited.  And she met his eyes without
embarrassment.  That made matters more difficult for Ronald.  He
plunged straight away into the object of his visit.

"Where were you on Tuesday night, Beryl?"

She was puzzled.  "Tuesday--?  I forget, why?"

"Try to think, dear," he urged.

"I was dining at home.  Father was out, I think.  I'm not sure.  I
went to a concert after with the Paynters.  Yes, that was it--why?"

"You were dining with Moropulos and I."

She stared at him.  "I don't understand."

"Moropulos is in trouble with Steppe.  He has been drinking and some
of Steppe's watchers have reported that he made an ass of himself,
gave away some business secrets, and that sort of thing.  Steppe is
naturally furious and Moropulos wants to prove an alibi."

"That he was dining with us, how absurd!  Where?"

"In my flat."

She surveyed him steadily.  He was unusually excited.  She had never
seen Ronnie like that before.  Nothing ever ruffled him.

"Of course, I can't tell such a lie, even to save your friend," she
said.  "I was dining at home, although father has such a wretched
memory that he won't be sure whether I was here or not."

"Where did you meet the Paynters, did they call for you?" he asked
eagerly and she shook her head.

"No, I met them at Queens Hall.  I was late and they had gone into
the hall.  But that is beside the point.  I am not helping you in
this matter."

"But you must, you must," he was frenzied.  "Moropulos knows--he saw
you come into the flat--and come out."

There was a dead silence.

"When--on that night?"

She walked across the room, her hands clasped behind her.  Ronnie had
expected hysteria--he marveled at her calm.

"Very well," she said at last.  "I dined with you and Moropulos.  You
had better invent another lady.  Let us be decent, even in our
inventions.  And Mr. Moropulos entertained us with talk about--what?"

"Anything," nervously, "I know that you think I'm a brute--I can't
tell you what I think about myself."

"I can save you the trouble.  You think you are in danger and you are
hating me because I am the cause."

"Beryl!"

She smiled.  "Perhaps I am being uncharitable.  The complex of this
situation doesn't allow for very clear thinking.  I may take another
view next week.  Will you post this letter for me as you go out?"

He went down the stairs dumbfounded.  Her quietness, the unshaken
poise of her, staggered him.  "Will you post this letter!"--as if his
visit had been an ordinary call.  He glanced at the envelope.  It was
addressed to a Bond Street milliner, and on the back flap was
scribbled: "Send the blue toque also."

"H'm," said Ronnie as he dropped the letter into the post box.  He
felt in some indefinable way that he was being slighted.




XII

Mrs. Colebrook acclaimed it as a miracle and discovered in the
amazing circumstance the result of her industrious praying.

"Every night I've said: 'Please God, make Christina well, amen.'"

The osteopath, a short, bearded man, who perspired with great
freedom, grunted his grudging satisfaction.

Christina was not well by any means, but for the first time in her
life she stood upon her own two feet.  Only for a few seconds, with
Mrs. Colebrook supporting her on the one side and the bone doctor on
the other, but she stood.

"Yes--not bad after a month's work," said the osteopath.  "You must
have massage for those back muscles, they are like wool.  If you
don't mind a man doing it, you couldn't do better than persuade Mr.
Sault.  He is an excellent masseur--I found this out by accident.
The evening he came to engage me, I'd been dining out and sprained my
ankle getting out of a cab--young lady, I observe your suspicion.  I
am an abstainer and have not touched strong wines for twenty years.
I came in feeling bad and I was not inclined to discuss spines with
him or anybody.  But he insisted on massaging the limb--said he had
learned the art in a hospital somewhere--yes, ask him.  Otherwise it
will cost you half a guinea a day."

Evie heard all this early in the afternoon.  It was early closing day
and she came home to lunch.  She flew up the stairs and literally
flung herself upon Christina.

"You darling.  Isn't it wonderful!  Mother says you stood up by
yourself.  Oh, Chris, didn't it feel splendid!"

"Mother is a romancer," smiled Christina.  "I certainly did stand on
my feet, with considerable assistance, and it felt like hell!--pardon
the language--physically.  Spiritually and intellectually it was a
golden moment of life.  Oh, Evie, I'm gurgling with joy inside and
the prospect of Ambrose rubbing my back fills me with bliss."

"Ambrose--Mr. Sault?"

Christina inclined her head gravely.

"But not your _bare_ back?"

"I fear so," said Christina.  "I knew this would be a shock to you."

"Don't be silly, Chris--it is all right I suppose," and then with a
happy laugh, "of course it is all right.  I'm wrong.  I think I must
have an unpleasant mind.  You've always said I had--well, you've
hinted.  I'd even let him rub my back if it would do you good."

"You Lady Godiva," murmured Christina admiringly, "quo vadis?"

"That means where am I going?  I always mix it up with that other
one, 'the sign of the cross.'  I am going to a matinee with a girl
from the shop.  She had tickets sent to her by a gentleman who knows
the manager.  It will be a bad play; you can't get tickets for a
success.  How is your Ambrose?  I haven't seen him for weeks.  Ronnie
says that there has been an awful lot of trouble at the office--"

"Oh!  Has he an office?"

"I don't know--some office Ronnie is connected with.  He's a
director, my dear.  I saw his name in the paper--Ronnie, I mean."

"Has Ambrose been in trouble?"

"No, some other man, I forget his name.  It is foreign and he drinks.
But it has all blown over now."

Christina sighed.  "I don't see how Ambrose came into it, even after
your lucid explanation."

"Ambrose, that is to say Mr. Sault, is supposed to look
after--whatever his name is.  It sounds like the name of a cigarette.
He is supposed to stop him drinking.  And he found this--Moropulos,
that's the name, in a bar and hauled him out and Moropulos fought
him.  I don't know the whole story but I do know that there was a
row."

"Is the cigarette person still able to walk about?" asked Christina
incredulously.

"Yes, but they are very bad friends.  Moropulos says he'll get even
with Sault."

"Unhappy man," said Christina, "Ronnie is getting quite
communicative, isn't he?"

"We're real friends," answered the girl enthusiastically, "we're just
pals!  I sometimes feel--I don't know whether I ought to tell you
this.  But I will.  I sometimes feel that I really don't want to
marry Ronnie at all.  I feel that I could be perfectly happy, married
to somebody else, if I had him for a friend.  Isn't that queer?"

Christina thought it was queer and wondered if this attitude of mind
was Evie's very own or whether it had grown by suggestion.  But she
had evidently done Ronnie an injustice in this instance.

"I've never told Ronnie this," said Evie.  "I don't fancy that he
would understand, but I did ask him whether he thought that he could
be friends with Beryl Merville if she married somebody else.  I only
asked him for fun, just to hear what he would say.  My dear, how he
loathes that girl!  I could tell he was sincere.  He was so furious!
He said that if she married, he would never visit her house and he
wished he had never seen her."

Christina made no response.  It was on the tip of her tongue to say
that Beryl Merville must know the man very well to have excited such
hatred, but she observed the truce.

When Ambrose put in an appearance late in the evening she learned
that he had heard from the osteopath.  His large smile told her that
even before he spoke.

"Now, Ambrose, did he say anything about massage?"

Ambrose nodded.  "I'll do it if you'll let me," he said simply.  "My
hands aren't as awkward as they look."

Later her mother, who had been an interested spectator of the
treatment, spoke a great truth.  "It seems natural for Mr. Sault to
be rubbing your back, Christina.  He's just like a--a soul with
hands--sounds ridiculous I know, but that is what I felt.  He wasn't
a man and he wasn't a woman.  It seemed natural, somehow--how did you
feel about it?"

"Mother, I begin to feel that I got my genius from you," said
Christina, patting a rumpled sheet into place, "I couldn't have
bettered that; 'a soul with hands'!"

Mrs. Colebrook blinked complacently.  "I've always been a bit clever
in describing people," she said.  "Do you remember how I used to call
Evie 'spitfire'?"

"Don't spoil my illusions mother--'a soul with hands' entitles you to
my everlasting respect.  And don't tell Evie, or she'll talk about
his feet.  He has big feet, I admit, though he makes less noise than
Evie.  And he snores, I heard him last night."




XIII

There came a day when Christina put her feet to the grimy pavement of
the street and walked slowly but without assistance to Dr. Merville's
car, borrowed through Beryl, for the afternoon.

It was a cold, clear day in January, the wind was in the east and the
gutters of Walter Street were covered with a thin film of ice.

A momentous occasion, for in addition to other wonders, Christina was
wearing her first hat!  Evie had chosen and bought it.  The woolen
costume was one from Mrs. Colebrook's wash-tub.  Ambrose had provided
a gray squirrel coat.  It had appeared at the last moment.  But the
hat was a joy.  Christina had worn it in bed all the morning, sitting
up with pillows behind her and a mirror in her hand.

"Lend me that powder-puff of yours, Evie," she said recklessly, "My
skin is perfect.  I admit it.  But I can't appear before the curious
eyes of the world wearing my own complexion.  It wouldn't be decent."

"If you take my advice," suggested the wise Evie, "you'll put a dab
of rouge on your cheeks.  Nobody will know."

"I am no painted woman," said Christina, "I am poor but I am
respectable.  Ambrose would think I had a fever and send for the
osteopath.  No, a little powder.  My eyes are sufficiently languorous
without eyeblack, I think.  It must be powder or nothing."

Ambrose did not accompany them, and Evie and Mrs. Colebrook were her
attendants in the drive to Hampstead.

Beryl saw them; she had arranged with Ambrose and the chauffeur that
the car should go past the house and she watched from behind a
curtained window.

So that was Evie; it was the first time she had seen her--no, not the
first time.  She was the girl to whom Ronnie had been speaking that
holiday morning when she had passed them in the park.  She was very
pretty and petite--the kind Ronnie liked.  She lingered at the window
long after they had passed, loath to face an unpleasant interview.

She knew it would be unpleasant; her father had been so anxious to
please her at lunch; his nervousness was symptomatic.  He wanted to
have a little talk with her that afternoon, he said; she guessed the
subject set for discussion.

Sitting before the drawing-room fire she was reading when he came in
rubbing his hands, and wearing a cheerful smile which was wholly
simulated.

"Ah, there you are, Beryl.  Now we can have a chat.  I get very
little time nowadays."

He poked the fire vigorously and sat down.  "Beryl--" he seemed at
some loss for an opening, "I had a talk with Steppe the other day--we
were talking about you."

"Yes?"

"Steppe is very fond of you--loves you," Dr. Merville cleared his
throat.  "Yes, he loves you, Beryl.  A fine man, a little rough,
perhaps, but a fine man and a very rich man."

"Yes?" said Beryl again and he grew more agitated.

"I don't know why you say 'Yes, yes,'" he said irritably, "a young
girl doesn't as a rule hear such things without displaying
some--well, some emotion.  How do you feel about the matter?"

"About marrying Mr. Steppe?  I suppose you mean that?  I can't marry
him: I don't wish to."

"I'm sure you would learn to love him, Beryl."

She shook her head.  "Impossible.  I'm sorry, father, especially if
you wished me to marry him.  But it is impossible."

The doctor stared gloomily into the fire.  "You must do as you wish.
I cannot conscientiously urge you to make any sacrifice--he is a
rough sort, and I'm afraid he will take your refusal badly.  I don't
mind what he does--really.  I've made a hash of things--it was
madness ever to invest a penny.  I had a hundred and fifty thousand
when I came into this house.  And now--!"

She listened with a cold feeling in her heart.  "Do you mean--that
you depend upon the good will of Mr. Steppe--that if you were to
break your connection with him and his companies, your position would
be affected--?"

He nodded.  "I am afraid that is how matters stand," he said, "but I
forbid you to take that into consideration."  Yet he looked at her so
eagerly, so wistfully, that she knew his lofty statements to be so
many words by which he expressed principles, long since dead.  The
form of his vanished code showed dimly through the emptiness of his
speech.

"I am a modern father--I believe that a girl's heart should go where
it will.  Girls do not marry men to save their families, except in
melodrama, and fathers do not ask such a ghastly sacrifice.  I should
have been glad if you had thought kindly of Steppe.  It would have
made my course so much more smooth.  However--"  He got up, stooped
to poke the fire again, hung the poker tidily on the iron and
straightened himself.

"Let me think it over," she said, not looking at him.  Not until he
was out of the room did he feel uncomfortable.

She had been prepared for this development.  Steppe had been a
constant visitor to the house and his rare flowers filled the vases
of every room except hers.  And her father had hinted and hinted.
That Dr. Merville was heavily in the debt of her suitor she could
guess.  Steppe had told her months before that he had to come to the
rescue of the doctor.  Only she had hoped that so crude an
alternative would not be placed before her, though she knew that such
arrangements were not altogether confined to the realms of melodrama.
At least two friends of hers had married for a similar reason.  A
knightly millionaire bootmaker had married Lady Sylvia Frascommon and
had settled the Earl of Farileigh's bills at a moment when that noble
earl was dodging writs in bankruptcy.  She could look at the matter
more calmly because she had come to a dead end.  There was nothing
ahead, nothing.  She did not count Ambrose Sault's love amongst the
tangibilities of life.  That belonged to herself.  Steppe would marry
that possession.  It was as much of her, as hands and lips, except
that it was beyond his enjoyment.  In the midst of her examination,
her father came in.

"There is one thing I forgot to say, dear--Ronnie, who is as fond of
you as any of us, thinks that you ought to marry--he says he'll be
glad to see you married to Steppe.  I thought it was fine of Ronnie."

"Shut the door, father, please; there's a draught," said Beryl.

Dr. Merville returned to his study shaking his head.  He couldn't
understand Beryl.

So Ronnie approved!  She sat, cheek in hand, elbow on knee, looking
at the fire.  Steppe did not seem so impossible after that.  Ronnie!
He would approve, of course.  What terrors he must have endured when
he discovered that Steppe was his rival!  What mental agonies!  An
idea came to her.

She went down to the hall where the telephone was and gave his number.

"Hello--yes."

"Is that you, Ronnie?"

"Yes--is that you, Beryl?" his voice changed.  She detected an
anxious note.  "How are you--I meant to come round yesterday.  I
haven't seen you for an age."

"Father says that you think I ought to marry Steppe."

There was an interval.  "Did you hear what I said?" she asked.

"Yes--of course it is heartbreaking for me--I feel terrible about it
all--but it is a good match, Beryl.  He is one of the richest men in
town--it is for your good, dear."

She nodded to the transmitter and her lips twitched.  "I can't marry
him without telling him, can I, Ronnie?"  She heard his gasp.

"For God's sake, don't be so mad, Beryl!  You're mad!  What good
would it do--it would break your father's heart--you don't want to do
that, do you?  It would be selfish and nothing good could come of
it--"

She was smiling delightedly at her end of the wire, but this he could
not know.

"I will think about it," she said.

"Beryl--Beryl--don't go away.  You mustn't, you really mustn't--I'm
not thinking about myself--it is you--your father.  You won't do such
a crazy thing, will you?  Promise me you won't--I am entitled to some
consideration."

"I'll think about it," she repeated and left him in a state of
collapse.




XIV

It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraordinary callers at
his bleak house in Paddington.  They came furtively, after dark, and
were careful to note whether or not they were followed.  Since few of
these made appointments and were unexpected, it was essential that
the Greek should be indoors up to ten o'clock.  Therefore, he failed
in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him away from
business.  He was maintained in comfort by Jan Steppe to receive
these shy callers.  Mr. Moropulos was not, as might be supposed,
engaged in a career of crime, as we understand crime.  The people who
came and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were
respectable persons who followed various occupations in the city and
would have swooned at the thought of stealing a watch or robbing a
safe.  But it was known in and about Threadneedle Street, Old Broad
Street and in various quaint alleyways and passages where bareheaded
clerks abound, that information worth money could be sold for money.
A chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a board room,
heard between the opening and closing of a door; a peep at a letter,
any of these scraps of gossip could be turned into solid cash by the
bearded Greek.

It was surprising how quickly his address passed round and even more
surprising how very quickly Moropulos had organized an intelligence
service which was unique as it was pernicious.  He paid well, or
rather Steppe paid, and the returns were handsome.  A clerk desiring
to participate in a rise of value which he knew was coming, could buy
a hundred shares through Moropulos and that, without the expenditure
of a cent.  Moropulos knew the secrets of a hundred offices; there
were few business amalgamations that he did not hear about weeks in
advance.  When the Westfontein Gold Mines published a sensational
report concerning their properties, a report which brought their
stock from eight to nothing, few people knew that Moropulos had had
the essential part of the report in his pocket the day after it
arrived in London.  It cost Steppe three thousand pounds, but was
worth every penny.  The amount of the sum paid was exaggerated, but
it was also spread abroad.  And in consequence, Mr. Moropulos was a
very busy man.

He was in his sitting-room on that shivering winter night.  A great
fire roared in the chimney, a shaded lamp was so placed, that it fell
upon the book and the occupant of the sofa could read in comfort.  On
a small eastern table was a large tumblerful of barley water.  From
time to time Mr. Moropulos sipped wryly.

It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself whether he
should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a café where he knew
some friends of his would be, when he heard the street door slam and
looked over his shoulder.  It could only be Sault or--

The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the snow from the
sleeve of his coat.  It was a handsome coat, deeply collared in
astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as Mr. Moropulos did not fail
to observe.

"Alone, huh?" said Steppe.  He glanced at the barley water by the
Greek's side and grinned sardonically.  "That's the stuff, not a
headache in a bucketful!"

"Nor a cheerful thought," said Moropulos.  "What brings you this way,
Steppe?"

"I want to put some things in the safe."

Sault's invention stood on a wooden frame behind a screen.

"Have to be careful about this word--give me some more light," said
Steppe at the dial.

Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch.

"That's better--huh.  Got it!"

The door swung open and, taking a small package from his pocket, the
big man tossed it in.

"Got something here, huh?"

He pulled out an envelope.  There was a wax seal on the back.

"'The photograph'?" he read and frowned at the other.

"It is mine," said Moropulos.

"Nothing to do with the business?"

"Nothing."

Steppe threw it back and turned the dial.

"Nothing new, huh?"

He glanced at the barley water again.

"Where's Sault?"

"He goes home early.  I don't see him again unless one of your hounds
sends for him."

Steppe's smile was half sneer.

"You don't like Sault--a good fellow, huh?"

Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog.  His beard seemed to
stiffen and his eyes blazed.

"Like him--he's not human, that fellow!  Nothing moves him, nothing.
I tried to smash him up with a bottle, but he took it away from me as
if I were a child.  I hate a man who makes me feel like that--if he
hadn't got my gun away I'd have laid him out.  It would be fine to
hurt the devil--and he is a devil, Steppe.  Inhuman.  Sometimes I
give him a newspaper to read--just for the fun of it.  But it never
worries him."

"Don't try.  He's a bigger man than you.  You want to rouse him, huh?
The day you do, God help you!  I don't think you will.  That's how I
feel about him.  He's cold.  Chilly as a Druid's hell.  He is
dangerous when he's quiet--and he's always quiet."

"He is no use to me.  It is a waste of money keeping him.  I'll give
you no more trouble."

Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache bristled
like the end of a brush.  It was a grimace indicative of his
skepticism.  He had reason.

"Leave it.  Sault will not give you any bother.  I don't want
strangers here, huh?  Cleaners who are spying detectives."

Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out.  But he did
not read.  His eyes looked beyond the edge of the page, his mind was
busy.  Detestation of Ambrose Sault was not assumed, as he had
simulated so many likes and dislikes.  Sault's maddening
imperturbability, his immense superiority to the petty annoyances
with which his daily companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek's
vulgarity, these things combined to the fire of the man's hatred.
They were incompatibles--it was impossible to imagine any two men
more unlike.

Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures
fleshly and elemental.  He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap
enough though they were.  He had collected from the Levant the
pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were
bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours.  So
it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville
into the category of easy women.  He had never doubted that she was
bad.  There were no other kind of women to Moropulos.  Suspecting,
before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified
his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle.  He
was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat
that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before,
perhaps the previous night.  Beryl was no less in his eyes than she
had been.  She was bad.  All women were bad, only some were more
particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.

He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning
he brought news.

Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the
house when he arrived.

"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of
interesting information."  Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away
broom and spade before he joined the other.

"You know Beryl Merville, don't you?  Steppe is marrying her."

He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something
of the sensation which its recital had caused him.  But his keen eyes
did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came
to his face.  Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask
descended again.

"What do you think of it, Sault?  Some girl, eh?"

He added one of his own peculiar comments.  "Who told you?"

"Ronald Morelle.  I don't suppose he minds--now.  Lucky devil,
Steppe.  God!  If I had his money!"

Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found the chink in his
armor.  He was certain of it.  It was incredible that a man like
Ambrose Sault would feel that way, but he would swear that Ambrose
was hurt.  Here he was wrong.  Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he
was not hurt.

That day Moropulos said little.  It was on the second and third days
that he went to work with an ingenuity that was devilish to break
farther into the crevice he had found.

Ambrose made little or no response.  The slyest, most outrageous
innuendo, he passed as though it had not been spoken.  Moropulos was
piqued and angry.  He dare not go farther for fear Sault complain to
Steppe.  That alone held him within bounds.  But the man was
suffering.  Instinctively he knew that.  Suffering in a dumb,
hopeless way that found no expression.

On the Friday night Ambrose returned to his lodging looking very
tired.  Christina was shocked at his appearance.  "Ambrose--what is
the matter?"

"I don't know, Christina--yes, I know.  Moropulos has been trying,
very trying.  I find it so much more difficult to hold myself in.  I
suppose I'm getting old and my will power is weakening."

She stroked the hand that lay on the arm of the chair (for she was
sitting up) and looked at him gravely.

"Ambrose, I feel that you have given me some of your strength.  Do
you remember how you gave it to mother?"

He shook his head.  "No, not you--I purposely didn't.  I've a loving
heart for you, Christina.  I shall carry you with me beyond life."

"Why do you say that tonight?" she asked with an odd little pain at
her heart.

"I don't know.  Steppe wants me to go down with Moropulos to his
place in the country.  Moropulos has asked me before, but this time
Steppe asked me.  I don't know--"

He shook his head wearily.  She had never seen him so depressed.  It
was as if the spirit of life had suddenly burned out.

"I hope it will be as you say, Ambrose, but, my dear, you are
overtired; we oughtn't to discuss souls and eternities and stuff like
that.  It is sleep you want, Ambrose."

"I'm not sleepy."

He bent over her, his big hand on her head.  "I am glad you are
well," he said.

She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, late as it was.  A
few minutes afterwards Evie came in.

"Where is Sault going?" she asked.  "I saw him stalking up the street
as though it belonged to him.  And oh, Chris, what do you think
Ronnie says!  Mr. Steppe is marrying that girl who came here--Beryl
Merville!"

"Fine," said Christina absently.

She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow for the man who
had gone out into the night.




XV

"The Parthenon" occupied an acre of land that had once been part of a
monastery garden.  Until Mr. Moropulos with his passion for Hellenic
nomenclature had so named it, the old cottage and its land was known
by the curious title: "Brothergod Farm", or as it appeared in ancient
deeds, "The Farmstead of Brother-of-God."

For Mr. Moropulos there was a peculiar pleasure in setting up in the
monastery land such symbols of the pantheistic religion of ancient
Greece as he could procure.

The house itself consisted of one large kitchen-hall on the ground
floor and two bedrooms above.  A more modern kitchen had been built
on to the main walls by a former tenant.  The cottage was well
furnished, and unlike his home in Paddington, the floors were
carpeted, a piece of needless extravagance from the Greek's point of
view, but one which he had not determined, for he had bought the
cottage and the furniture together, the owner being disinclined to
sell the one without the other.

The garden was the glory of the place in the summer.  It had a charm
even on the chill afternoon that Ambrose deposited his bag at the
white gate.  A wintry sun was setting redly, turning to the color of
wine the white face of the fields.  In the hollows of the little
valley beyond the cottage, the mists were lying in smoky pools.  His
hands on the top of the gate, he gazed rapturously at such a sun set
as England seldom sees.  Turquoise--claret--a blue that was almost
green.

Drawing a long breath he picked up his bag and walked into the house.

"Go down and look after Moropulos.  He is weakening on that
barley-water diet--he told me himself."

Thus Steppe.  His servitor obeyed without question, though he knew
that the shadow of death was upon him.

Moropulos was stretched in a deep mission chair, his slippered feet
toward the hearth.  And he had begun his libations early.

On the floor within reach of his hand, was a tumbler, full of milky
white fluid.  There was a sugar-basin--a glass jug half filled with
water and a tea strainer.  Ambrose need not look for the absinthe
bottle.  The accessories told the story.

"Come in--shut the door, you big fool--no you don't!"  Moropulos
snatched up the tumbler from the floor and gulped down its contents.
"Ha-a!  That is good, my dear--good!  Sit down!" he pointed
imperiously to a chair.

"You'll have no more of that stuff tonight, Moropulos."  Ambrose
gathered up the bottle and took it into the kitchen.  The Greek
chuckled as he heard it smash.  He had a store--a little locker in
the tool-shed; a few bottles in his bedroom.

"Come back!" he roared.  "Come, you big pig!  Come and talk about
Beryl.  Ah!  What a girl!  What a face for that hairy gorilla to
kiss!"

Sault heard, but went on filling a kettle and presently the shouts
subsided.

"When I call you, come!" commanded Moropulos sulkily as Ambrose
returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

"Drink this," said Ambrose.

Moropulos took the cup and saucer and flung them and their contents
into the fireplace.  "For children, for young ladies, but not for a
son of the south--an immortal, Sault!  For young ladies, yes--for
Beryl the beautiful--"

A hand gripped him by the beard and jerked his head up.  The pain was
exquisite--his neck was stretched, a thousand hot needles tortured
his chin and cheek where the beard dragged.  For the space of a
second he looked into the gray eyes, fathomless.  Then Ambrose broke
his grip and the man staggered to his feet mouthing, grimacing, but
silent.  Nor did Ambrose speak.  His eyes had spoken, and the
half-drunken man dropped back into his chair, cowering.

When Sault returned to the room, after unpacking his bag, Moropulos
was still sitting in the same position.  "Do you want anything cooked
for your dinner?"

"There is--fish--and chops.  You'll find them in the kitchen."

He sat, breathing quickly, listening to the sizzle and splutter of
frying meat.  Ambrose Sault shut the door that led into the kitchen
and the Greek stood up listening.

From beneath a locker he produced a bottle, quietly he took up the
water-jug and sugar and stole softly up to his room.  He locked the
door quietly, put down his impedimenta and opened a drawer of an old
davenport.  Underneath an assortment of handkerchiefs and underwear,
he found an ivory-handled revolver, a slender-barrelled, plated
thing, that glittered in his hand.  It was loaded; he made sure of
that.  His hatred of Ambrose Sault was an insensate obsession.  He
had pulled him by the beard, an intolerable insult in any
circumstances.  But Sault was a nigger--he sat down on the only chair
in the room and prepared a drink.

"Are you coming down?  I've laid the table and the food is ready,"
Ambrose called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Go to hell!"

"Come along, Moropulos.  What is the sense of this?  I am sorry I
touched you."

"You'll be more sorry," screamed the Greek.  His voice sounded
deafeningly near for he had opened the door.  "You dog, you--"

Mr. Moropulos had a wider range of expletives than most men.  Ambrose
listened without listening.

Pulling out a chair from the table, he sat down and began his dinner.
He heard the feet of the drunkard pacing the floor above, heard the
rumble of his voice and then the upper door was flung violently open
and the feet of Moropulos clattered down the stairs.  He had taken
off his coat and his waistcoat.  His beard flowed over a colored silk
shirt, beautifully embroidered.  But it was the thing in his hand
that Ambrose saw, and, seeing, rose.

The man's face was white with rage; an artery in his neck was
pulsating visibly.  "You pulled my beard--you ignorant negro--you
nigger thing--you damned convict!  You're going on your knees to lick
my boots--my boots, not Beryl's, you old fool--"

Ambrose did not move from the position he had taken on the other side
of the table.

"Down, down, down!" shrieked Moropulos, his pistol waving wildly.

Ambrose Sault obeyed, but not as Moropulos had expected.  Suddenly he
dropped out of view behind the edge of the white cloth and in the
same motion he launched himself under the table, toward the man.  In
a second he had gripped him by the ankles and thrown him--the pistol
dropped almost into his hands.

Moropulos stumbled to his feet and glared round at his assailant.  "I
hope to God you love that woman; I hope to God you love her--you do,
you old fool!  You love her--Ronald Morelle's mistress!  I know!  She
stayed a night at his flat--other nights too--but I saw her as she
came out--I photographed her!"

"You photographed her as she came out?" repeated Ambrose dully.

A grin of glee parted the bearded lips.

"I've hurt you, damn you!  I've hurt you!  And I'm going to tell
Steppe and tell her father and everybody!"

"You liar."  Sault's voice was gentle.  "You filthy man!  You saw
nothing!"

"I didn't, eh?  Oh, I didn't!  Morelle admitted it--admitted it to
me.  And I've got the photograph in a safe place, with a full account
of what happened!"

"In the safe!"

Moropulos had made a mistake, a fatal mistake.  He realized it even
as he had spoken.

"And you--and Morelle--have her in your cruel hands!"

So softly did he speak that it seemed to the man that it was a
whisper he heard.

Sault held in his hands the pistol.  He looked at it thoughtfully.
"You must not hurt her," he said.

Moropulos stood paralyzed for a moment, then made a dart for the
door.  His hand was on the latch when Ambrose Sault shot him dead.




_BOOK THE THIRD_


I

Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by the door.  He
seemed to be settling some difficulty which had arisen in his mind,
for the gloom passed from his face and pocketing the revolver slowly,
he walked across to where Paul Moropulos lay.  He was quite dead.

"I am glad," said Ambrose.

Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took out the
pistol again and examined it.  There were five live cartridges.  He
only needed one.  In the kitchen he put on the heavy overcoat he had
been wearing when he arrived.  Returning, he lit the candle of a
lantern and went out into the back of the house where Moropulos had
erected a small army hut to serve as his garage.  He broke the lock
and wheeled out the little car.  Ambrose Sault was in no hurry: his
every movement was deliberate.  He tested the tank, filled it, put
water in the radiator; then started the engines and drove the car
through the stable gates on to the main road, before, leaving the
engines running, he paid another visit to the house and blew out the
lamp.

As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing by the car.
It proved to be a villager.

"Somebody heard a shot going off up this way.  I told 'un it was only
Mr. Moropuly's old car backfiring."

"It was not that," said Ambrose as he stepped into the car.  "Good
night."

He drove carefully, because his life was very precious this night.
He thought of Christina several times, but without self-pity.
Christina would get well--and her love would endure.  It was of the
quality which did not need the flesh of him.  Ronald Morelle must
die.  There was no other solution.  He must die, not because he had
led the woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and,
honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose.  Ronald's offense was his
knowledge.  He knew: he had told.  He would tell again.

A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking.  He was asked to
produce a license and, when none was forthcoming, his name and
address were taken.  Ambrose gave both truthfully.  It was a lucky
chance for the policeman.  Afterwards he gave evidence and became
important: was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered
at a weeping man.  That was seven weeks later--in March, when the
primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm.

Ambrose knew Ronald's flat.  He had gone there once with Moropulos,
and he had waited outside the door whilst Moropulos was interviewing
Ronnie.

Nine o'clock was striking as the car drew up before the flat--Ronnie
heard it through the closed casement.

Nine o'clock?  He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair.  What
was the cause of that cold trickling sensation--his mouth went dry.
He used to feel like that in air raids.

A bell rung.

"François--"  Louder, "François!"

"Pardon, m'sieur."  François came out of his pantry half awake.

"The door."  Who was it, thought Ronnie--he jumped up.

"What do you want, Sault?"

Ambrose looked round at the waiting servant.  "You," he said.  "I
want to know the truth first--that man should go."

Ronnie flushed angrily.  "I certainly cannot allow you to decide
whether my servant goes or remains.  Have you come from Mr. Steppe?"

Ambrose hesitated.  Perhaps it was a confidential message from
Steppe, thought Ronnie.  This uncouth fellow often served as a
messenger.

"Wait outside the door, François--no, outside the lobby door."

"I haven't come from Steppe."

Suddenly Ronnie remembered.  "Steppe said you had gone to the country
with Moropulos--where is he?"

"Dead."

Ronnie staggered back, his pale face working.  He had a horror of
death.

"Dead?" he said hollowly, and Sault nodded.

"I killed him."

A gasp.  "God--!  Why!"

"He knew--he said you had told him.  He knew because he was outside
your flat all night and photographed her as she went out."

The blood of the listener froze with horror.  "I--I don't know what
you're talking about--who is the 'she'?"

"Beryl Merville."

"It is a lie--absurd--Miss Merville--!  Here?"

He found his breath insufficient for his speech.  Something inside
him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed.

"It is true--she was here.  She told me."

"You--you're mad!  Told you!  It is a damned lie.  She was never
here.  If Moropulos said that, I'm glad you've killed him!"

"He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know about that
because he spoke to you and you admitted it all."

"I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken to me.  I would
have killed him if he had.  The story of the photograph is a lie--he
invented it.  That was his way--where is this picture?"

Ambrose did not answer.  Was this man speaking the truth?  His
version was at least plausible.  He must go at once to the house in
Paddington and get the envelope--it must be destroyed.  How would he
know if Ronnie was speaking the truth?  Ronald Morelle, his teeth
biting into his lip, saw judgment wavering.  He was fighting for his
life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul quivered.

"Where is that picture--?  I tell you it is an invention of that
swine.  He guessed--  Even to you I will not admit that there is a
word of truth in the story."

He had won.  The hand that was thrust into the overcoat pocket
returned empty.

"I will come back," said Sault.

When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the number plate
of his car.  He took no notice, but drove off.  He had to break a
window to get into the house at Paddington.  He had forgotten to
bring his keys.  That delayed his entrance for some while.  He was in
the room, and his fingers on the dial of the combination, when three
men walked through the door.

He knew who they were.  "I have a revolver in my pocket, gentlemen,"
he said.  "I have killed Paul Moropulos, the owner of this house."
They snapped handcuffs upon his wrists.

"Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?" asked the tall
inspector in charge.  He had been reading a typewritten notice
affixed to the top.

"Yes, sir," said Ambrose Sault.

"What is it?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

"What is in it--money?"

No answer.  The officer beckoned forward one of the uniformed men who
seemed to fill the hall.

"This safe is not to be touched, you understand?  By anybody.  If you
allow the handle to be turned, there will be trouble.  Come along,
Sault."

The handcuffs were unnecessary.  They were also inadequate.  In the
darkness of the car--

"I am very sorry, inspector--I have broken these things--I was
feeling for a handkerchief and forgot."

They did not believe him, but at the police station they found that
he had spoken the truth.  The bar of the cuff had been wrenched open,
the steel catch of the lock torn away.

"I did it absentmindedly," said Ambrose shamefaced.

They put him into a cell where he went instantly to sleep.  The
handcuffs became a famous exhibit which generations of young
policemen will look upon with awe and wonder.




II

Sunday morning, and the bells of the churches calling to worship.
Fog, thin and yellow, covered the streets.  All the lamps in Jan
Steppe's study were blazing, he had the African's hatred of dim
lights and there was usually one lamp burning in the room he might be
using, unless the sun shone.

He paced up and down the carpet, his hands thrust deep into his
pockets, his mind busy.  He was too well-equipped a man to see danger
in any other direction than where it lay.  In moments of peril, he
was ice.  He could not be cajoled or stampeded into facing imaginary
troubles, nor yet to turn his back upon the real threat.  All his
life he had been a fighter and had grown rich from his victories.
Struggle was a normal condition of existence.  Nothing had come to
him that he had not planned and worked for, or to gain which he had
not taken considerable risks.  The risks now were confined to Ambrose
Sault and his fidelity to the trust which had been forced upon him by
circumstances.  He was satisfied that Ambrose would not speak.  If he
did--

Steppe chewed on an unlighted cigar.

The removal of Moropulos meant an inconvenience Sault scarcely
counted.  The Greek was a nuisance and a danger, whilst his
extravagance and folly had brought his associates to the verge of
ruin.  When the police arrested Ambrose Sault they took possession of
the house in which he had been found.  Amongst other things seized,
was the safe upon which Moropulos had pasted a typewritten notice in
his whimsical language:

  TO BURGLARS AND ALL WHOM
  IT MAY CONCERN
  --------------------
  CAUTION

  Any attempt to open this safe, except by
  the employment of the correct code word,
  will result in the destruction of the safe's
  contents.

  _DON'T TURN THE HANDLE_


Steppe had seen the notice but had not read it.  If it had not been
affixed!  One turn of the handle and every paper would have been
reduced to a black pulp.  He tried to remember what was stored in the
cursed thing.  There were drafts, memoranda, letters from illicit
agents, a record of certain transactions which would not look
well--the Mackenzie report!  Later he remembered the photograph in
the sealed envelope.  Why had Sault gone to the safe?  The report he
had had from the police--they had been with him for the best part of
the morning--was to the effect that Sault had been arrested at the
moment he was swinging the dials.  What was Sault after?  He could
not read: only documents were in the safe.

A footman appeared.  "Who?--Morelle--show him in."

Ronnie was looking wan and tired.  He had not recovered from his
fright.

"Well?  I got your 'phone call.  Don't 'phone me, d'ye hear--never!
You get people listening in at any time; just now the exchanges will
be stiff with detectives.  What were you trying to tell me when I
shut you up?"

"About Sault--he came to me last night."

"Huh!  Fine thing to talk about on the 'phone!  Did you tell the
police?"

"No, and I've ordered François to say nothing.  After Sault went, I
sent François to--to Moropulos' house.  I knew Sault was going there."

"How did you know?  And why did he come to you anyway?"

The answer Ronnie had decided upon after much cogitation.  "Oh--a
rambling statement about Moropulos.  I couldn't make head or tail of
it.  He said he was going to the house; I was afraid of trouble, so I
sent François."

"You knew Moropulos was in Hampshire--I told you they were both
there."

"I'd forgotten that.  I don't want to come into this, Steppe--"

"What you 'want', matters as much to me as what your François wants.
If Sault says he came to your flat--but he won't.  He'll say
nothing--nothing."

He looked keenly at the other.  "That was all he said, huh?  Just a
rambling statement?  Not like Sault that, he never rambles.  Did he
tell you that he killed Moropulos?"

Ronnie hesitated.

"He did!  Try to speak the truth, will you?  So he told you he had
killed the Greco?"

"I didn't take him seriously.  I thought he must be joking--"

"Fine joke, huh?  Did Sault ever pull that kind of joke?  You're not
telling me the truth, Morelle--you'd better.  I'm speaking as a
friend.  What did he come to talk to you about, huh?  He never even
knew you--had no dealings with you.  Why should he come to you after
he'd committed a murder?"

"I've told you what happened," said Ronnie desperately.

Again the quick scrutiny.  "Well--we shall see."

Ronald waited for a dismissal.

"That sounds like the doctor's voice," he said suddenly.

Steppe strode to the door and opened it.

"Why, Beryl, what brings you out?  Good morning, doctor--yes, very
bad news."

Beryl came past him and went straight to Ronald.  "Did you see him,
Ronnie--did he come to you?"

"To me--of course not.  I hardly knew him."

"Don't lie," said Steppe impatiently, "we're all friends here.  What
makes you think he went to Morelle, Beryl?"

"I wondered."

"But you must have had some reason?"

She met the big man's eyes coldly.  "Must I be cross-examined?  I had
a feeling that he had been to Ronnie.  I don't know why--why does one
have these intuitions?"

"We saw it in the morning papers," explained the doctor.  "I am
fearfully worried; poor Moropulos, it is dreadful."

Steppe smiled unpleasantly.  "He is the least troubled of any of us,"
he said callously, "and the next least is Sault.  I saw the detective
who arrested him.  He said Sault went straight to sleep the moment
they put him into the cell, and woke this morning cheerful.  He must
have nerves of iron."

"Can anything be done for him, Mr. Steppe?"

"He shall have the best lawyer--that Maxton fellow.  He ought to be
retained.  As far as money can help, I'll do everything possible.  I
don't think it will make a scrap of difference."

"Mr. Steppe, you knew what an evil man Moropulos was: you know the
provocation he offered to Ambrose Sault, isn't it possible that the
same cause that made him kill this man, also sent him to the safe?"

"What safe is this--was that in the newspapers too?"

"Yes: he was not a thief, was he?  He would not be trying to open the
safe for the sake of getting money?  He came to get something that
Moropulos had."

"I wonder--"  Steppe was impressed.  "It may have been the
photograph."

Ronnie checked the exclamation that terror wrung.  He was livid.

"Do you know anything about a photograph?" asked Steppe with growing
suspicion.

"No."  Here Beryl came to the rescue.

When he saw her lips move, Ronnie expected worse.

"Whatever it was, I am sure that the safe holds the secret: Ambrose
would not kill a man unless--unless there was no other solution.
Won't you open the safe, Mr. Steppe?"

"I'll be damned if I do!" he vociferated violently.  "There is
nothing there which would save him."

"Or justify him--or show the Greek as being what he was?"

Steppe could not answer this: he had another comment to offer.  His
attitude toward her had changed slightly since the big diamond had
blazed upon her engagement finger: a reminder of obligations past and
to come.

"You're taking a hell of an interest in this fellow, Beryl?"

"I shall always take a hell of an interest in every matter I please,"
she said, eyeing him steadily.  "Unless you satisfy me that nothing
has been left undone that can be done for Ambrose, I shall go into
the witness box and swear to all that I know."

"My dear--"  Her father's expostulation she did not hear.

Steppe broke into it.  "There is something about this business which
I don't understand.  You and Moropulos and this fellow dined together
once--or didn't you?  Sounds mighty queer, but I won't enquire--now."

"You'll open the safe?"

"No!"  Steppe's jaw set like a trap.  "Not to save Sault or any other
man!  There is nothing there to save him, I tell you.  But if there
was--I wouldn't open it.  Get that into your mind, all of you."

She regarded him thoughtfully, and then Ronnie.  He looked in another
direction.

"I am taking the car, father."

Even Steppe did not ask her where she was going.




III

Christina had known in the middle of the night when the police came
to search Sault's room.  A detective of high rank had been
communicative; she heard the story with a serenity which filled the
quaking Evie with wonder.  If her face grew of a sudden peaked, a new
glory glowed in her eyes.

Mrs. Colebrook wept noisily and continued to weep throughout the
night.  Christina meditated upon an old suspicion of hers, that her
mother regarded Ambrose Sault as being near enough the age of a
lonely widow woman, to make possible a second matrimonial venture.
This view Evie held definitely.

"Oh, Chris--my dear, I am so sorry," whimpered the younger girl, when
the police had taken their departure.  "And I've said such horrid
things about him.  Chris, poor darling, aren't you feeling awful--I
am."

"Am I feeling sorry for Ambrose?  No."  Christina searched her heart
before she went on.  "I'm not sorry.  Ambrose was so inevitably big.
Something tremendous must come to him: it couldn't be otherwise."

"I was afraid something might happen."  Evie shook her head wisely.
"This Greek man was very insulting.  Ronnie told me that.  And if
poor Ambrose lost his temper--"

"Ambrose did not lose his temper," Christina interrupted brusquely.
"If Ambrose killed him, he did it because he intended doing it."

"In cold blood!"  Evie was horrified.

"Yes: Ambrose must have had a reason.  He tells me so--don't gape,
Evie, I'm not delirious.  Ambrose is here.  If I were blind and deaf
and he sat on this bed he would be here, wouldn't he?  Presence
doesn't depend on seeing or hearing or even feeling.  He'd be here if
he was not allowed to touch me.  Go back to bed, Evie.  I'm sleepy
and I want to dream."

Beryl arrived soon after eleven.  Evie was out and Mrs. Colebrook,
red-eyed, brought her up to the bedroom.  Christina was sure the girl
would come and had got up and dressed in readiness.

Some time went by before they were alone.  Mrs. Colebrook had her own
griefs to express, her own memories to retail.  She left at last
singultient in her woe.

"Do you think you are strong enough to come to the house?" asked
Beryl.  "I could call for you this afternoon.  Perhaps you could stay
with me for a few days.  I feel that I want you near to me."

This, without preliminary.  They were too close to the elementals to
pick nice paths to their objectives.  They recognized and
acknowledged their supreme interests as being common to both.

"Mother would be glad to get rid of me for a day or two," said
Christina.

"And I am sending my father abroad," nodded Beryl, with a faint
smile.  "When shall I come?"

"At three.  You have not seen him?"

Beryl shook her head.

"They are taking him into the country.  We shall never see him
again," she said simply.  "He will not send for us.  I am trying to
approach it all in the proper spirit of detachment.  He is a little
difficult to live up to--don't you feel that?"

"If I say 'no' you will think I am eaten up with vanity," said
Christina with a quick smile.  "I am rather exalted at the moment,
but the reaction will come perhaps, in which case I shall want to
hang on to your understanding."

At three o'clock the car arrived.  Mrs. Colebrook saw her daughter go
without regret.  Christina was unnatural.  She had not shed a tear.
Mrs. Colebrook had heard her laughing and had gone up in a hurry to
deal with hysteria, only to find her reading Stephen Leacock.  She
was appalled.

"I am surprised at you, Christina!  Here is poor--Mr. Sault in
prison--"  Words failed her, she could only make miserable noises.

"Mother has given me up," said Christina, when she was lying on a big
settee in Beryl's room, her thin hand outstretched to the blaze.
"Mother is a sort of female Hericletos--she finds her comfort in
weeping."

Beryl was toasting a muffin at the fire.

"I wish it were a weeping matter," she said, and went straight to the
subject uppermost in her mind.  "Moropulos took a photograph of me
coming from Ronald Morelle's flat.  I had spent the night there."
She looked at the muffin and turned it.  "Moropulos was--nasty.  He
must have told Ambrose that he knew."

Christina stirred on the sofa.  "Did Ambrose know?"

"Yes: I told him.  Not the name of the man, but he guessed, I
think--I know the photograph was in the safe.  He went to Ronnie.
Perhaps to kill him.  I imagine Ronnie lied for his life.  The police
were looking for Ambrose.  The--killing of Moropulos was discovered
by a man who heard the shot and the car had just passed through
Woking after the police had been warned.  A detective saw the car
outside Ronnie's flat and followed it.  I don't know all the details.
Father has seen the inspector in charge of the case.  Do you like
sugar in your tea?"

"Two large pieces," said Christina, "I am rather a baby in my love of
sugar.  Do you love Ronnie very much, Beryl--you don't mind?"

"No--please.  Love him?  I suppose so: in a way.  I despise him, I
think he is loathsome, but there are times when I have a--wistful
feeling.  It may be sheer ungovernable--you know.  Yet--I would make
no sacrifice for Ronnie.  I feel that.  I have made no sacrifice.
Women are hypocrites when they talk of 'giving': they make a
martyrdom of their indulgence.  Some women.  And it pleases them to
accept the masculine view of their irresponsibility.  They love
sympathy.  For Ambrose I would sacrifice--everything.  It is cheap to
say that I would give my life.  I have given more than my life.  So
have you."

Christina was silent.

"I have faced--everything," Beryl went on.  She was sitting on a
cushion between Christina and the fire, her tea cup in her hands.
"You have also--haven't you, Christina?"

"About Ambrose?  Yes.  He has passed.  The law will kill him.  He
expects that.  I think he would be uncomfortable if he was spared.
He told me once, that all the way out to New Caledonia, he grieved
about the people who had been guillotined for the same offense as he
had committed.  The unfairness of it!  He never posed.  Can you
imagine him posing?  I've seen him blush when I joked about that
funny little trick of his; have you noticed it?  Rubbing his chin
with the back of his hand?"

Beryl nodded.

"He said he had tried to get out of the habit," Christina continued.
"No, Ambrose couldn't pretend, or do a mean thing; or lie.  I'm
getting sentimental, my dear.  Ambrose was distressed by
sentimentality.  Mother kissed his hand the day I stood for the first
time.  He was so bewildered!"

They laughed together.

"Are you marrying Steppe?" asked Christina.  She felt no call to
excuse the intimacy of the question.

"I suppose so.  There are reasons.  At present he is rather
impersonal.  As impersonal as a marriage certificate or a church.  I
have no imagination perhaps.  I shall not tell him.  You don't think
I should--about Ronnie, I mean?"

Christina shook her red head.  "No.  As I see it, no.  If you must
marry him, you are doing enough without handing him another kind of
whip to flog you with."

"I told Ambrose: that was enough," said Beryl.  "My conscience was
for him.  Steppe wants no more than he gives."

The clock chimed five.

Ambrose at that moment was passing through the black gates of
Wechester County Prison and Ronald Morelle was taking tea with Madame
Ritti.




IV

Madame lived in a big house at St. John's Wood.  A South American
minister had lived there, and had spent a fortune on its interior
adornment.  Reputable artists had embellished its walls and ceilings,
and if the decorations were of the heavy florid type, it is a style
which makes for grandeur.  The vast drawing-room was a place of white
and gold, of glittering candelabras and crimson velvet hangings.  How
Madame had come to be its possessor is a long and complicated story.
The minister was recalled from London on the earnest representations
of the Foreign Office and a budding scandal was denied its full and
fascinating development.

Madame had many friends, and her house was invariably full of guests.
Some stayed a long time with her.  She liked girls about her, she
told the innocent vicar who called regularly, and might have been
calling still, if his wife had not decided that if Madame required
any spiritual consolation, she would put her own pew at her disposal.

Her object (confessed Madame) was to give her guests a good time.
She succeeded.  She gave dances and entertained lavishly.  She made
one stipulation: that her visitors should not play cards.  There was
no gambling at Alemeda House.  The attitude of the police authorities
toward Madame Ritti's establishment was one of permanent expectancy.
Good people, people with newspaper names, were guests of hers: there
was nothing furtive or underhand about her parties.  Nobody had ever
seen a drunken man come or go.  The guests were never noisy
only--Madame's girl guests were many.  And none of the people who
came to the dances were women.

Madame was bemoaning the skepticisms of the authorities to Ronnie.

She was a very stout woman, expensively, but tastefully dressed.  Her
lined face was powdered, her lips vividly red.  A duller red was her
hair, patently dyed.  Dyed hair on elderly women has the effect of
making the face below seem more fearfully old.  She wore two ropes of
pearls and her hands glittered.

Ronnie always went to Madame Ritti in his moments of depression; he
had known her since he was little more than a schoolboy.  She had a
house in Pimlico then, not so big or so finely furnished, but she had
girl guests.

"You know, Ronnie, I try to keep my house respectable.  Is it not so?
One tries and tries and it is hard work.  Girls have so little brain.
They do not know that men do not really like rowdiness.  Is it not
so?  But these policemen--oh, the dreadful fellows!  They question my
maids--and it is so difficult to get the right kind of maid.
Imagine!  And the maids get frightened or impertinent," she laid the
accent on the last syllable.  She was inclined to do this, otherwise
her English was perfect.

The door opened and a girl lounged in.  She was smoking a cigarette
through a holder--a fair, slim girl, with a straight fringe of golden
hair over her forehead.

Ronnie smiled and nodded.

"Hello, Ronnie--where have you been hiding?"

Madame snorted.  "Is it thus you speak?  'Hello, Ronnie,' my word!
And to walk in smoking!  Lola, you have to learn."

"I knew nobody else was here," replied the girl instantly apologetic,
"I'm awfully sorry, Madame."

She hid the cigarette behind her and advanced demurely.

"Why, it is Mr. Morelle!  How do you do?"

"That is better, much better," approved Madame, nodding her huge
head.  "Always modesty in girls is the best.  Is it not so, Ronnie?
To rush about, fla--fla--fla!"  Her representation of gaucherie was
inimitable.  "That is not good.  Men desire modesty.  Especially
Englishmen.  Americans, also.  The French are indelicate.  Is it not
so?  Men wish to win; if you give them victory all ready, they do not
appreciate it.  That will do, Lola."

She dismissed the girl with a stately inclination of her head.

"What have you been doing?  We have not seen you for a very long
time.  You have other engagements?  You must be careful.  I fear for
you sometimes," she patted his arm.  "You will come tonight?  You
must dress, of course.  I do not receive men who are not in evening
dress.  Grand habit, you understand?  The war made men very careless.
The smoking jacket--tuxedo--what do you call it? and the black tie.
That is no longer good style.  If you are to meet ladies, you must
wear a white bow and the white waistcoat with the long coat.  I
insist upon this.  I am right, is it not so?  All the men wear grand
habit nowadays.  What do you wish, Ronnie?"

"Nothing in particular; I thought I would come along.  I am feeling
rather sick of life today."

She nodded.  "So you come to see my little friends.  That is nice and
they will be glad.  All of them except Lola; she is going out to
dinner tonight with a very great friend.  You know your way: they are
playing baccarat in the little salon.  It amuses them and they only
play for pennies."

Ronnie strolled off to seek entertainment in the little salon.

He was rung up at his flat that evening four times.  At midnight
Steppe called him up again.

"M'sieur, he has not returned.  No, M'sieur, not even to dress."

Madame Ritti, for all the rigidity of her dress regulations, made
exceptions seemingly.

Ronald was sleeping soundly when Steppe strolled into his room and
let up the blind with a crash.

"Hullo?"  Ronnie struggled up.  "What time is it?"

"Where were you last night?"  Steppe's voice was harsh, contumelious.
"I spent the night ringing you up.  Have the police been here?"

"Police, no.  Why should they?"

"Why should they!" mimicked the visitor, "because Sault stopped his
car before the entrance of these flats.  Luckily, they are not sure
whether he went in or not.  The detective who saw the car did not
notice where Sault had come from.  They asked me if there was anybody
in Knightsbridge he would be likely to visit, and I said 'no', d'ye
hear?  No!  I can't have you in their hands, Morelle.  A cur like you
would squeal and they would find out why he came.  _And I don't want
to know_."

The dark eyes bent on Ronnie were glittering.

"You hear?  I don't want to know.  Moropulos is dead.  In a week or
two Sault will be dead and Beryl will be married.  Why in hell do you
jump?"

Ronnie affected a yawn and reached out for his dressing gown.

"Of course I jumped," he was bold to say, even if he quaked inwardly.
"You come thundering into my room when I'm half asleep and talk about
police and Moropulos.  Ugh!  I haven't your nerve.  If you want to
know, Sault came here to ask me where you were.  I thought he was a
little mad and told him you were out of town."

"You're a liar--a feeble liar!  Get up!"

He stalked out of the room slamming the door behind him, and when
Ronnie joined him, he was standing before the mantelpiece scowling at
the Anthony.

"Now listen.  They will make enquiries and it is perfectly certain
that they will trace you as being a friend of Moropulos.  I want to
keep out of it, and so do you.  At present they cannot connect me
with the case except that I had dealings with Moropulos.  So had
hundreds of others.  If they get busy with you they will turn you
inside out; I don't want you to get it into your head that I'm trying
to save you trouble.  I'm not.  You could roast in hell and I'd not
turn the hose on to you!  I'm thinking of myself and all the trouble
I should have if the police got you scared.  Sault didn't come here,
huh?  Was anybody here beside you?" he asked quickly.

"Only François."

"Your servant!"  Steppe frowned.  "Can you trust him?"

Ronnie smiled.

"François is discreet," he said complacently.

A shadow passed across Steppe's dark face.

"About the women who come here, yes; but with the police?  That is
different.  Bring him in."

"I assure you, my dear fellow--"

"Bring him here!" roared the other.

Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily.

"François, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, huh?"

"Yes, M'sieur."

"You had no visitors, huh?"

François hesitated.

"No visitors, François: you didn't open the door to Sault--you know
Sault?"  The man nodded.

"And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was here, you will
tell them the truth--you did not see him.  Your master had no
visitors at all; you saw nobody and heard nobody."

He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, fingering the
notes that filled one compartment.

François' eyes were on the note case, too.

"Nobody came, M'sieur.  I'll swear.  I was in the pantry all evening."

"Good," said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crushing them into a
ball.

"Do you want to see me, today?" asked Ronnie, and his uncomfortable
guest glared.

"Not today.  Nor tomorrow, nor any day.  Where were you last night?"

François retired in his discretion.

"I went to Brighton--"

"You went to Ritti's--that--!"

He did not attempt any euphemism.  Madame Ritti's elegant
establishment he described in two pungent words.

"God!  You're--what are you?  I'm pretty tough, huh?  Had my gay
times and known a few of the worst.  But I've drawn a line somewhere.
Sault in prison and Moropulos dead--and you at Ritti's!  What a louse
you are!"

He stalked into the hall, shouted for François and dropped the little
paper ball into his hand.  François closed the door on him
respectfully.

"A beast--!" said Ronnie, disgusted.




V

Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor interviewed Ambrose
Sault in his airy cell.  He expected to find a man broken by his
awful position.  He found instead, a cheerful client who, when he was
ushered into the cell, was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper
with minute figures.  A glance at the paper showed the wondering
officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in
mathematics.  It was, in fact, a differential equation of a high and
complex character.

"It is very kind of Mr. Steppe, but I don't know what you can do,
sir.  I killed Moropulos.  I killed him deliberately.  Poor soul!
How glad it must have been to have left that horrible body with all
its animal weaknesses!  I was thinking about it last night: wondering
where it would be.  Somewhere in the spaces of the night--between the
stars.  Don't you often wonder whether a soul has a chemical origin?
Some day clever men will discover.  Souls have substance, more
tenuous than light.  And light has substance.  You can bend light
with a magnet: I have seen it done.  The ether has substance:
compared with other unknown elements, ether may be as thick as
treacle.  Supposing some super-supernatural scientist could examine
the ether as we examine a shovel full of earth?  Is it not possible
that the soul germ might be discovered?  For a soul has no size and
no weight and no likeness to man.  Some people think of a soul as
having the appearance of the body which it inspires.  That is stupid.
If death can cling to the point of a needle and life grows from a
microscopic organism, how infinitesimal is the cell of the soul!  The
souls of all the men and the women of the world might be brought
together and be lost on one atom of down on a butterfly's wing!"

The lawyer listened hopefully.  Here was a case for eminent
alienists.  He saw the governor of the jail as he went out.

"I should very much like this man to be kept under medical
observation," he said.  "From my conversation with him, I am
satisfied that he isn't normal."

"He seems sane enough," replied the governor, "but I will speak to
the doctor: I suppose you will send specialists down?"

"I imagine we shall; he isn't normal.  He practically refuses to
discuss the crime--occupied the time by talking about souls and the
size of 'em!  If that isn't lunacy, then _I'm_ mad!"

Steppe, to whom he reported, was very thoughtful.

"He isn't mad.  Sault is a queer fellow, but he isn't mad.  He thinks
about such things.  He is struggling to the light--those were the
words he used to me.  Yes, you can send doctors down if you wish.
You have briefed Maxton?"  The lawyer nodded.

"He wasn't very keen on the job.  It is a little out of his line.
Besides, he'll be made a judge in a year or two, and naturally he
doesn't want to figure on the losing side.  In fact, he turned me
down definitely, but I was hardly back in my office--his chambers are
less than five minutes walk away--before he called me up and said
he'd take the brief.  I was surprised.  He is going down to Wechester
next week."

Steppe grunted.

"You understand that my name doesn't appear in this except to Maxton,
of course.  I dare say that if I went on to the witness stand and
told all I knew about Moropulos and what kind of a brute he was, my
evidence might make a difference.  But I'm not going and your job is
to keep me out of this, Smith."

Steppe's attitude was definite and logical.  Sault, in a measure, he
admired without liking.  He saw in him a difficult, and possibly a
dangerous, man.  That he had piqued his employer by his independence
and courage did not influence Steppe one way or another.  It was, in
truth, the cause of his admiration.  Sault was a man in possession of
a dangerous secret.  The folly of entrusting two other men with the
combination word of the safe had been apparent from the first.  He
had been uneasy in his mind, more because of the unknown reliability
of Moropulos, than because he mistrusted Sault, and he had decided
that the scheme for the storage of compromising documents possessed
too many disadvantages.  Without telling either of his associates, he
had arranged to transfer the contents of the safe to his own custody
when the disaster occurred.  The safe was in the hands of the curious
police.  And the more he thought about the matter, the more
undesirable it seemed that the safe should be opened.  It contained,
amongst other things, the draft of a prospectus which had since been
printed--the shares went to allotment two days before the murder.
The draft was in his own hand, a dozen sheets of pencilled writing,
and it described in optimistic language certain valuable assets which
were in fact non-existent.  The financial press had remarked upon the
fact, and not content with remarking once, had industriously
continued to remark.  Steppe had made a mistake, and it was a bad
mistake.  The cleverest of company promoters occasionally overstep
the line that divides the optimistic estimate from misrepresentation.
Fortunately, his name did not appear on the prospectus; most
unfortunately, he had preserved the draft.  He had put it aside after
Dr. Merville had copied the document.  He had a reason for this.  Jan
Steppe seldom appeared in such transactions: even his name as vendor
was skilfully camouflaged under the title of some stock-holding
company.  He was a supreme general who issued his orders to his
commanders: gave them the rough plan of their operations, and left
them to lick it into shape.  It sometimes happened that they deviated
from his instructions, generally to the advantage of the scheme they
were working: occasionally they fell short of his requirements and
then his draft proved useful in emphasizing their error.  And this
was only one of the safe's contents.  There were others equally
dangerous.

Steppe believed that his servant would die.  To say that he hoped he
would die would be untrue.  Belief makes hope superfluous.  It was
politic to spend money on the defense of a man who, being grateful,
would also be loyal.  He could accept Sault's death with equanimity,
and without regret.  With relief almost.  Evidence could be given
which would show Moropulos in an unfavorable light.  The Greek was a
drunkard: his reputation was foul: he was provocative and
quarrelsome.  The weapon was his own (Sault had once taken it away
from him) a plea of self-defense might succeed--always providing that
Mr. Jan Steppe would submit himself to cross-examination, and the
reflected odium of acquaintance with the dead man and his killer.

And Mr. Jan Steppe was firmly determined to do nothing of the kind.
Sault would carry his secret to the grave unless--suppose this
infernal photograph which Moropulos had put into the safe--suppose
Sault mentioned this to the lawyers: but he would be loyal.  Steppe,
having faith in his loyalty, decided to let him die.

Sir John Maxton had changed his mind on the question of defending
Sault as a result of an urgent request which had reached him
immediately after the solicitor had left his chambers.

He called on Beryl Merville on his way home.  She was alone.
Christina had returned to her mother, and Dr. Merville was at Cannes,
mercifully ignorant of the comments which the financial newspapers
were passing upon a company of which he was president.

"I will undertake the defense, Beryl, though I confess it seems to me
a hopeless proposition.  I had just that moment refused the brief
when you rang through.  If I remember aright, I have met
Sault--wasn't he that strong looking man who came to Steppe's house
the night we were dining there?  I thought so.  And Moropulos--who
was he?  Not the drunken fellow who made such a fool of himself?  By
jove!  I hadn't connected them--I have only glanced at the brief and
I am seeing Sault on Friday.  Fortunately, I am spending the week-end
in the country, and I can call in on my way.  Smith is attending to
the inquest and the lower Court proceedings.  I saw Smith (he is the
solicitor) this afternoon: he tells me that Steppe is paying for the
defense.  That is a professional secret, by the way.  He also
surprised me by expressing the view that Sault is mad."

Beryl smiled.  "He is not mad," she said quietly, "why does he think
so?"

Sir John humped his thin shoulders: a movement indicative of his
contempt for the lawyer's opinion on any subject.

"Apparently Sault talked about souls as though they were microbes.
Smith, being a God-fearing man, was shocked.  To him the soul stands
in the same relationship to the body as the inner tube of a tire to
the cover.  He is something of a spiritualist, and spiritualism is
the most material of the occult sciences--it insists that spirits
shall have noses and ears like other respectable ghosts.  From what
he said, I couldn't make head or tail of Sault's view."

"Ambrose is not mad," said the girl, "he is the sanest man I have
ever met, or will meet.  His view is different: he himself is
different.  You cannot judge him by any ordinary standard."

"You call him 'Ambrose'," said Sir John in surprise, "is he a friend
of yours?"

"Yes."

She said no more than that, and he did not press the question.  It
was impossible to explain Ambrose.




VI

A call at the Colebrook's in the afternoon or evening had become a
regular practice since Christina had stayed with her.  Evie had very
carefully avoided being at home when Beryl called.

"I'm sorry I don't like your aristocratic friend, and I know it is a
great comfort to have somebody to speak to, about poor Mr. Sault, but
I simply can't stand her, Ronnie says that he quite understands my
dislike.  Christina, do you think Miss Merville is a--you won't be
offended, will you?  Do you think she is a good girl?"

"Good?  Do you mean, does she go to church?"

"Don't be silly.  Do you think she is a--virtuous girl?  Ronnie says
that some of these society women are awfully fast.  He says it
wouldn't be so bad if there was love in it, because love excuses
everything, and the real wicked people are those who marry for money."

"Like Beryl," said Christina, "and love may excuse everything--like
you--he hopes."

Evie sighed patiently.

"Do you know what I think about Ronnie?" asked Christina.

"I'm sure I don't want to know," snapped Evie, roused out of her
attitude of martyrdom.

"I think he is a damned villain!--shut up, I'm going to say it.  I
think he is the very lowest blackguard that walks the earth!  He is--"

But Evie had snatched up her coat and fled from the room.

Christina's orders from the osteopath were to go to bed early.  She
was making extraordinary progress and had walked unassisted down the
stairs that very day--she was lying dressed on the bed when Beryl
arrived.

"I suppose you'll liken me to the squire's good wife visiting the
indigent sick," she said, "but I've brought a basket of things--fruit
mostly.  Do you mind?"

"I've always wanted to meet Lady Bountiful," said Christina.  "I
thought she never stepped from the Christmas magazine covers.  Did
you meet Evie?"

"No, I thought she was out."

"She's hiding in the scullery," said Christina calmly.

"She doesn't like me.  Ronnie, I suppose?"

Christina nodded.  "Ronnie at first hand may be endurable: as
interpreted by Evie he is--there is only one word to describe him--I
promised mother that I would never use it again.  Any news?"

Beryl nodded.  "I had a letter--"

"So did I!" said Christina triumphantly, and drew a blue envelope
from her blouse.

"Written by the prison chaplain and dictated by Ambrose.  Such a
typical letter--all about the kindness of everybody and a minute
description of the cell intended, I think, to show how comfortable he
is."

Christina had had a similar letter.

"Sir John Maxton is defending him," said Beryl.  "That is what I have
come to tell you.  He is a very great advocate."

They looked at one another, and each had the same thought.

"The best lawyer and the kindest judge and the most sympathetic jury
would not save Ambrose," said Christina, and they looked for a long
time into one another's eyes and neither saw fear.

Beryl did not stay long.  They ran into a blind alley of conversation
after that: a time of long quietness.

Jan Steppe was waiting in the drawing-room when she returned.  The
maid need not have told her: she sensed his presence before the door
was opened.  She had seen very little of Steppe, remembering that she
had engaged herself to marry him.  She did not let herself think much
about it: she had not been accurate when she told Christina that she
had no imagination.  It was simply that she did not allow herself the
exercise of her gift.  The same idea had occurred to Jan Steppe--he
had seen little of her.  He was a great believer in clearing up
things as he went along.  An unpleasant, but profitable, trait of his.

"Been waiting for you an hour: you might leave word how long you'll
be out, huh, Beryl?"

A foretaste, she thought, of the married man, but she was not
offended.  That was just how she expected Steppe would talk: probably
he would swear at her when he knew her better.  Nevertheless--

"I go and come as I please," she said without heat.  "You must be
prepared to put me under lock and key if you expect to find me in any
given place, at any given time.  And then I should divorce you for
cruelty."

He did not often show signs of amusement.  He smiled now.

"So that's your plan.  Sit down by me, Beryl, I want a little talk."

She obeyed: he put his arm about her, and looking down, she saw his
big hairy hand gripping her waist.

"Why are you shaking, Beryl?  You're not frightened of me, huh?" he
asked, bending his swarthy face to hers.

"I--I don't know."  Her teeth were chattering.  She was frightened.
In a second all her philosophy had failed and her courage had gone
out like a blown flame.  Every reserve of will was concentrated now
in an effort to prevent herself screaming.  Training, education,
culture, all that civilization stood for, crashed at the touch of
him.  She was woman, primitive and unreasoning: woman in contact with
savage mastery.

"God!  What's the matter, huh?  You expect to be kissed, don't you?
I'm going to be your husband, huh?  Expect to be kissed then, don't
you?  What is the matter with you?"

She got up from the sofa, her legs sagging beneath her.

Looking, he saw her face was colorless: Steppe was alarmed.  He
wanted her badly.  She had the appeal which other women lacked,
qualities which he himself lacked.  And he had frightened her.
Perhaps she would break off everything.  He expected to see the ring
torn from her trembling hand and thrown on the floor at his feet.
Instead of that:

"I am very sorry, Mr. Steppe--foolish of me.  I've had rather a
trying day."  She was breathless, as though she had been running at a
great pace.

"Of course, Beryl, I understand.  I'm too rough with you, huh?  Why,
it is I who should be sorry, and I am.  Good friends, huh?"

He held out his hand, and shivering, she put her cold palm in his.

"Doctor coming back soon?  That's fine.  You haven't sent him on any
newspapers, huh?  No, he could get them there."

Other commonplaces, and he left her to work back to the cause of her
fright.

With reason again enthroned (this was somewhere near four o'clock in
the morning) she could find no other reason than the obvious one.
She was afraid of Steppe as a man.  Not because he was a man, but
because he was the kind of man that he was.  He was a better man than
Ronnie, she argued.  He had principles of sorts.  Ronnie had none.
Perhaps she would get used to him: up to that moment it did not occur
to her to break her engagement, and curiously enough, she never
thought of her father.  Steppe was sure in his mind that he held her
through Dr. Merville.  That was not true.  Neither sense of honor nor
filial duty bound her to her promise, nor was marriage an expiation.
She must wear away her life in some companionship.  After, was
Ambrose Sault, in what shape she did not know or consider.  She never
thought of him as an angel.




VII

Sometimes the brain plays a trick upon you.  In the midst of your
everyday life you have a vivid yet elusive recollection of a past
which is strange to you.  You see yourself in circumstances and in a
setting wholly unfamiliar.  Like a flash it comes and goes; as
swiftly as the shutter of a camera falls.  Flick!  It is gone and you
can recall no incident upon which you can reconstruct the vision of
the time-fraction.  Beryl saw herself as she had been before she came
upon a shabby gray-haired man studying the wallpaper in the hall of
Dr. Merville's house.  Yet she could never fix an impression.  If the
change of her outlook had been gradual, she might have traced back
step by step.  But it had been violent: catastrophic.  And this
bewildering truth appeared: that there had been no change so far as
Ronnie was concerned.  He had not altered in any degree her aspect of
life.  It worried her that it should be so.  But there it was.

She had a wire from her father the next morning to say that he was
returning at once.  Dr. Merville had seen certain comments in the
newspaper and was taking the next train to Paris.

She did not go to the station to meet him and was not in the house
when he arrived.  Even in the days that followed she saw little of
him, for he seemed to have pressing business which kept him either at
Steppe's office or Steppe's house.  One night she went to dinner
there.  It was a meal remarkable for one circumstance.  Although
Sault was coming up for trial the following week, they did not speak
of him.  It was as though he were already passed from the world.  She
was tempted once to raise his name, but refrained.  Discussion would
be profitless, for they would only expose the old platitudes and
present the conventional gestures.

In the car as they drove home the doctor was spuriously cheerful.
His lighter manner generally amused Beryl; now her suspicions were
aroused, for of late, her father's laborious good humor generally
preceded a request for some concession on her part.

It was not until she was saying good night that he revealed the
nature of his request.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea if you cut your engagement
as short as possible, dear?" he asked with an effort to appear
casual.  "Steppe doesn't want a big wedding--one before the civil
authorities with a few close friends to lunch afterwards--"

"You mean he wants to marry at once?"

"Well--not at once, but--er--er--in a week or so.  Personally, I
think it is an excellent scheme.  Say in a month--"

"No, no!" she was vehement in her objection, "not in a month.  I must
have more time.  I'm very sorry, father, if I am upsetting your
plans."

"Not at all," said his lips.  His face told another story.

Possibly Steppe had issued peremptory instructions.  She was certain
that if she had accepted his views meekly, the doctor would have
named the date and the hour.  Steppe may have expressed his desire,
also, that she should be married in gray.  He was the sort of man who
would want his bride to wear gray.

Jan Steppe, for all his wealth and experience, retained in some
respects the character of his Boer ancestors.  His dearest possession
was a large family Bible, crudely illustrated, and this he cherished
less for its message (printed in the _taal_) than for the family
records that covered four flyleaves inserted for the purpose.  He
liked wax fruit under glass shades and there hung in his library
crayon enlargements of his parents, heavily framed in gold.  He was a
member of the Dutch Reformed Church and maintained a pew in the kirk
at Heidelberg where he was born and christened.  He believed in the
rights of husbands to exact implicit obedience from their wives.  The
ultimate value of women was their prolificacy; he might forgive
unfaithfulness; sterility was an unpardonable offense.  Springing, as
he did, from a race of cattle farmers, he thought of values in terms
of stock breeding.

Instinctively Beryl had discovered this: on this discovery her
repugnance was based, though she never realized the cause until long
afterwards.

The day of the trial was near at hand.  Sir John Maxton had had two
interviews with his client.  After the second, he called on her.

"I haven't seen you since I met him, have I?  Your Sault!  What is
he, in the name of heaven?  He fascinates me, Beryl, fascinates me!
Sometimes I wish I had never taken the brief--not because of the
hopelessness of it--it _is_ hopeless, you know--but--"

"But?" she repeated, when he paused, puzzling to express himself
clearly.

"He is amazing: I have never met anybody like him.  I am not
particularly keen on my fellows, perhaps I know them too well and
have seen too much of their meannesses, their evilness.  But Sault is
different.  I went to discuss his case and found myself listening to
his views on immortality.  He says that what we call immortality can
be reduced to mathematical formulæ.  He limited the infinite to a
circle, and convinced me.  I felt like a fourth form boy listening to
a 'brain' and found myself being respectful!  But it wasn't that--it
was a sweetness, a clearness--something Christlike.  Queer thing to
say about a man who has committed two murders, both in cold blood,
but it is a fact.  Beryl, it is impossible to save him, it is only
fair to tell you.  I cannot help feeling that if we could get at the
character of this man Moropulos, he would have a chance, but he
absolutely refuses to talk of Moropulos.  'I did it,' he says, 'what
is the use?  I shot him deliberately.  He was drunk: I was in no
danger from him.  I shot him because I wanted him to die.  When I
walked over to where he lay, he was dead.  If he had been alive I
should have shot him again.'  What can one do?  If he had been
anybody else, I should have retired from the case.

"There is a safe in this case, probably you have read about it in the
newspapers.  It was found in the Greek's house, and is a sort of
secret repository.  At any rate, it cannot be opened except by
somebody who knows the code word.  I suspected Sault of being one who
could unlock the door and challenged him.  He did not deny his
knowledge but declined to give me the word.  He never lies: if he
says he doesn't know, it is not worth while pressing him because he
really doesn't know.  Beryl, would your father have any knowledge of
that safe?"

She shook her head.  "It is unlikely, but I will ask him.  Father
says that Ronnie is going to the trial.  Is he a witness?"

Sir John had, as it happened, seen Ronnie that day and was able to
inform her.  "Ronnie is writing the story of the trial for a
newspaper.  What has Sault done to him?  He is particularly vicious
about him.  In a way I can understand the reason if they had ever
met.  Sault is the very antithesis of Ronnie.  They would 'swear',
like violently different colors.  I asked him if he would care to
stay with me--I have had the Kennivens' house placed at my disposal,
they are at Monte Carlo--but he declined with alacrity.  Why does he
hate Sault?  He says that he is looking forward to the trial."

Beryl smiled.  "For lo, the wicked bend the bow that they may shoot
in the darkness at the upright heart," she quoted.




VIII

Ronald Morelle also found satisfaction in apposite quotations from
the Scriptures.  When he was at school the boys had a game which was
known as "trying the luck."  They put a Bible on the table, inserted
a knife between the leaves, and whatever passage the knife-point
rested against, was one which solved their temporary difficulties.

Ronnie had carried this practice with him, and whenever a problem
arose, he would bring down The Book and seek a solution.  He utilized
for this purpose a miniature sword which he had bought in Toledo, a
copy of the Sword of the Constable.  It was a tiny thing, a few
inches in length.  Its handle was of gold, its glittering blade an
example of the best that the Fabrica produced.

"It is really wonderful how helpful it is, Christina," said Evie, to
whom he had communicated the trick.  "The other day, when I was
wondering whether you would be better for good, or whether this was
only, so to speak, a flash in the pan--because I really don't believe
in osteopaths, they aren't proper doctors--I stuck a hat pin in the
Bible and what do you think it said?"

"Beware of osteopaths?" suggested Christina lazily.

"No, it said, 'Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bone which
Thou hast broken may rejoice!"

"My bones were never broken," said Christina, and asked with some
curiosity: "How do you reconcile your normal holiness with playing
monkey tricks with the Bible?"

"It isn't anything of the sort," replied Evie tartly, "the Bible is
supposed to help you in your difficulties."

"Anyway, my bones rejoice to hear that Ronnie is such a Bible
student," said Christina.

Evie knew that to discuss Ronald Morelle with her sister would be a
waste of time.  Ronnie was to her the perfect man.  She even found,
in what Christina described as a "monkey trick ", a piety with which
she had never dreamed of crediting him.  Christina was unjust, but
she hoped in time to change her opinions.  In the meantime, Ronald
Morelle was molding Evie's opinions in certain essentials pertaining
to social relationship, and insensibly, her views were veering to the
course he had set.  She had definitely accepted his attitude toward
matrimony.  She felt terribly advanced and superior to her fellows
and had come to the point where she sneered when a wedding procession
passed her.  So far, her assurance, her complete plerophory of
Ronnie's wisdom rested in the realms of untested theory.

But the time was coming when she must practice all that Ronnie
preached, and all that she believed.  She was no fool, however
intense her self-satisfaction.  She was narrow, puritanical, in the
sense to which that term has been debased, and eminently respectable.
He might have converted her to devil worship and she would have
remained respectable.  Ronnie was going abroad after the trial.  He
had made money, and although he was not a very rich man, he had in
addition to the solid fortune he had acquired through his association
with Steppe, a regular income from his father's estate.  He intended
breaking with Steppe and was in negotiation for villas in the south
of France and in Italy.  Evie knew that she would accompany him, if
he insisted.  She knew equally well that she would no longer be
accounted respectable.  That thought horrified her.  To her, a
wedding ring was adequate compensation for many inconveniences.  The
fascinations of Ronnie were wearing thin: familiarity, without
breeding contempt, had produced a mutation of values.  The
"exceedingly marvelous" had become the "pleasantly habitual."  And
she had, by accident, met a boy she had known years before.  He had
gone out to Canada with his parents and had returned with stories of
immense spaces and snow-clad mountains and cozy farms, stories that
had interested and unsettled her.  And he had been so impressed by
her, and so humble in the face of her imposing worldliness.  Ronnie
was, of course, never humble, and though he called her his beloved,
she did not impress him, or make him blush, or feel gauche.  She had
more of the grand lady feeling with Teddy Williams than she could
ever experience in the marble villas of Palermo.  And Teddy placed a
tremendously high value upon respectability.  Still--he could not be
compared with Ronnie.

She had consented to pay a visit to Ronnie's flat.  She was halfway
to losing her respectability when she reluctantly agreed, but the
thrill of the projected adventure put Teddy Williams out of her mind.
The great event was to be on the day after Ronnie came back from
Wechester.

In the meanwhile, Ronnie, anticipating a dull stay at the assize
town, made arrangements to fill in his time pleasantly.

The day before he left London he called on Madame Ritti and Madame
gave a sympathetic hearing to his proposition.

"Yes, it will amuse Lola, but she must travel with her maid.  One
must be careful, is it not so?  One meets people in such unlikely
places and I will not have a word spoken against my dear girls."




IX

The case of the King against Ambrose Sault came on late in the
afternoon of the third assize day.  The assizes opened on the Monday
and the first two and a half days were occupied by the hearing of a
complicated case of fraudulent conversion; it was four o'clock in the
afternoon when Sault, escorted by three warders, stepped into the pen
and listened to the reading of the indictment.

It was charged against him that "He did wilfully kill and murder Paul
Dimitros Moropulos by shooting at him with a revolving pistol with
intent to kill and murder the aforesaid Paul Dimitros Moropulos."

He pleaded "Guilty", but by the direction of the Court, a technical
plea of "Not Guilty" was entered in accordance with the practice of
the law.  The proceedings were necessarily short, the reading of the
indictment, the swearing in of the jury, and the other preliminaries
were only disposed of before the Court rose.

Wechester Assize Court dates back to the days of antiquity.  There is
a legend that King Arthur sat in the great outer hall, a hollow
cavern of a place with vaulted stone roof and supporting pillars worn
smooth by contact with the backs of thirty generations of litigants
waiting their turn to appear in the tiny court house.

"I knew I was going to have a dull time," complained Ronnie.  "Why on
earth didn't they start the trial on Monday?"

"Partly because I could not arrive until today," said Sir John.  "The
judge very kindly agreed to postpone the hearing to suit my
convenience.  I had a big case in town.  Partly, so the judge tells
me, because he wanted to dispose of the fraud charges before he took
the murder case.  Are you really very dull, Ronnie?"  He looked
keenly at the other.

"Wouldn't anybody be dull in a town that offers no other amusement
than a decrepit cinema?"

"I thought I caught a glimpse of you as I was coming from the
station, and, unless I was dreaming, I saw you driving with a
lady--it is not like you to be dull when you have feminine society."

"She was the daughter of a very old friend of mine," said Ronnie
conventionally.

"You are fortunate in having so many old friends with so many pretty
daughters," said Sir John drily.

Ronnie was in court at ten o'clock the following morning.  The place
was filled, the narrow public gallery packed.  The scarlet robed
judge came in, preceded by the High Sheriff, and followed by his
chaplain; a few seconds later came the sound of Ambrose Sault's feet
on the stairway leading to the dock.

He walked to the end of the pen, rested his big hands on the ledge
and bowed to the judge.  And then his eyes roved round the court.
They rested smilingly upon Sir John, bewigged and gowned, passed
incuriously over the press table and stopped at Ronald Morelle.  His
face was inscrutable: his thoughts, whatever they were, found no
expression.  Ronald met his eyes and smiled.  This man had come to
him with murder in his heart: but for Ronnie's ready wit and readier
lie, his name, too, would have appeared in the indictment.  That was
his thought as he returned the gaze.  Here was his enemy trapped:
beyond danger.  His smile was a taunt and an exultation.  Sault's
face was not troubled, his serenity was undisturbed.  Rather, it
seemed to Sir John, who was watching him, that there was a strange
benignity in his countenance, that humanized and transfigured him.

Trials always wearied Ronnie.  They were so slow, so tedious: there
were so many fiddling details, usually unimportant, to be related and
analyzed.  Why did they take the trouble?  Sault was guilty by his
own confession, and yet they were treating him as though he were
innocent.  What did it matter whether it was eight or nine o'clock
when the policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to
produce his license?  Why bother with medical evidence as to the
course the bullet took--Moropulos was dead, did it matter whether the
bullet was nickel or lead?

From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the court.  He had no
work to do--his description of Sault in the dock, his impression of
the court scene, had been written before he left his hotel.  The
verdict was inevitable.

Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the old man on
the bench interjected his questions.

Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his client's
confession.  Sault felt that he was morally guilty.  It was for the
jury to say whether he was guilty in law.  A man in fear of his life
had the right to defend himself, even if in his defense he destroyed
the life of the attacker.  The revolver was the property of
Moropulos, was it not fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the
pistol for the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually
threatened him with the weapon?  And the judge had taken this
possibility into account and his questions were directed to
discovering the character and habits of the dead man.

Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the prisoner's life.
Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten the judge.  Steppe had not
come, Ronnie would have been amused if it were suggested that he
should speak.

The end of the trial came with startling suddenness.

Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he hurried back as
they returned.

The white-headed associate rose from behind his book-covered table
and the jury answered to their names.

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your verdict?"

"We have."

The voice of the foreman was weak and almost inaudible.

"Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"

A pause.

"Guilty."

There was a sound like a staccato whisper.  A quick explosion of soft
sound, and then silence.

"Ambrose Sault, what have you to say that my lord should not condemn
you to die?"

Ambrose stood easily in the dock: both hands were on the ledge before
him and his head was bent in a listening posture.

"Nothing."

His cheerful voice rang through the court.  Ronnie saw him look down
to the place where Sir John was sitting, and smile, such a smile of
encouragement and sympathy as a defending lawyer might give to his
condemned client; coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was
unique.

The judge was sitting stiffly erect.  He was a man of seventy, thin
and furrowed of face.  Over his wig lay a square of black silk, a
corner drooped to his forehead.

"Prisoner at the bar, the jury have found the only verdict which it
was possible for them to return after hearing the evidence."  He
stopped here, and Ronnie expected to hear the usual admonition which
precedes the formal sentence, but the judge went on to the
performance of his dread duty.  "The sentence of this court is, and
this court doth ordain, that you be taken from the place whence you
came, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be
hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body shall afterwards
be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you were last
confined.  And may God have mercy upon your soul."

Ambrose listened, his lips moving.  He was repeating to himself word
by word the sentence of the law.  He had the appearance of a man who
was intensely interested.

A warder touched his arm and awoke him from his absorption.  He
started, smiled apologetically, and, turning, walked down the stairs
and out of sight.

"Good-bye, my friend--I shall see you once again," said Ronnie.

He had decided to leave nothing undone that would authorize his
presence at the execution.

Going into the hall to see the procession of the judge with his
halberdiers and his trumpet men, he saw Sir John passing and his eyes
were red.  Ronnie was amused.

"Are you traveling back to town tonight, Ronnie?"

"No, Sir John.  I leave in the morning."

Sir John wrinkled his brows in thought.

"You saw him?  Did you ever see a man like him?  I am bewildered and
baffled.  Poor Sault, and yet why 'poor'?  Poor world, I think, to
lose a soul as great as his."

"He is also a murderer," said Ronnie with gentle sarcasm.  "He has
brutally killed two men--"

"There is nothing brutal in Ambrose Sault," Sir John checked himself.
"I go back by the last train.  I am dining with the judge in his
lodgings and he told me I might bring you along."

"Thank you, I've a lot of work to do," said Ronnie so hastily that
the other searched his face.

"I suppose you are alone here?"

"Quite--the truth is, I promised to drive with a friend of mine."

"A man?"

Lola came through the big doors at that moment.

"I was looking for you, Ronnie--my dear, I am bored to tears--"

Sir John looked after them and shook his head.

"Rotten," he said.  That a man could bring his light o' love to this
grim carnival of pain!




X

Late in the afternoon Christina received a note delivered by hand.

"Mother, would you mind if I spent the night with Miss Merville?"

Mrs. Colebrook shook her head without speaking.  In these days she
lived in an atmosphere of gloom, for she had adopted the right of
chief griever.

"Nobody else seems to care about poor Mr. Sault," she had said many
times.  "I really can't understand you, Christina, after all he has
done for you, I won't say that you're heartless, because I will never
believe that about a child of mine.  You're young."

"Do you think Mr. Sault would like to know that you go weeping about
the house for his sake?" asked Christina patiently.

"Of course he would!  I would like somebody to grieve over me and I'm
sure he'd like to know that somebody was dropping a silent tear over
him."

On the whole, Mrs. Colebrook preferred to be alone that night.  The
late editions would have the result of the trial.  Evie would be out,
too.  She was going to a theatre with Teddy Williams.  That, Mrs.
Colebrook thought, was heartless, but Evie had an excuse.  Mr. Sault
had done nothing for her: had even quarreled with her.

So Christina went gladly to her new friend.  She saw the doctor for a
minute in the hall and in his professional mood, Dr. Merville was
charming.

"You open up vistas of a new career for me, Miss Colebrook," he
laughed.  "With you as a shining example, I am almost inclined to
take up osteopathy in my old age!  Really, you have mended
wonderfully."

In Beryl's little room she heard the news.

"We expected it, of course," she said.  "Did Sir John wire anything
about Ambrose--how he bore it?"

"Yes, here is the telegram."

Christina read: "Sault sentenced to death.  He showed splendid
courage and calmness."

"Naturally he would," said Christina quietly.  "I am glad the strain
is over, not that I think it was a strain for him.  Beryl, I hope we
are going to be worthy disciples of our friend?  There are times when
I am very afraid.  It is a heavy burden for a badly equipped mind
like mine.  But I think I shall go through without making a weak fool
of myself.  I almost wish that _I_ was marrying Jan Steppe.  The
prospect would take my mind off--no it wouldn't.  And it doesn't in
your case."

"I don't want to have my mind relieved of Ambrose," said Beryl.  "We
can do nothing, Christina.  We never have been able to do anything.
Ambrose could appeal, but of course, he won't do anything of the
sort.  I had a mad idea of going to see him.  But I don't think I
could endure that."

Christina shook her head.

She saw him every day.  He never left her; he was sitting there now
with his hands folded, silent, thoughtful.  She avoided saying
anything that would hurt him.  In moments when Evie annoyed her, as
she did lately, the thought that Ambrose would not approve, cut short
her tart retort.  She confessed this much and Beryl agreed.  She felt
the same way.

Beryl had had another bed put in her own room and they talked far
into the night.  There was nothing that Ambrose had ever said which
they did not recall.  He had said surprisingly little.

"Did he ever tell you in so many words that he loved you, Beryl?"

Only for a second did Beryl hesitate.  "Yes," she said.

"You didn't want to tell me that, did you?  You were afraid that I
should be hurt.  I'm not.  I love his loving you.  I don't grudge you
a thought.  He ought to love somebody humanly.  I always think that
the one incompleteness of Christ was his austerity.  That doesn't
sound blasphemous or irreverent, does it?  But he missed so much
experience because he was not a father with a father's feelings.  Or
a husband with a husband's love.  I suppose theological people can
explain this satisfactorily.  I am taking an unlearned view--"

Evie was very nervous, thought Christina, when she saw her the next
afternoon.  Usually she was self-possession itself.  She snapped at
the girl when she asked her how she had enjoyed the play, although
she was penitent immediately.

"Mother has been going on at me for daring to see a play the night
poor Ambrose was sentenced," she said.  "I'm sure nobody feels more
sorry than I do.  You're different to mother.  I ought to have known
that you weren't being sarcastic."

"How is Teddy?  I remember him when he was a tiny boy.  Do you like
him, Evie?"

Evie pursed her red lips.  "He's not bad," she granted.  "He's very
young and--well, simple."

"You worldly old woman!" smiled Christina.  "You make me feel a
hundred!"

Yes, Evie was nervous.  And she took an unusual amount of trouble in
dressing.

"Where are you going tonight--all dolled up?"

Evie was pained.  "That is an _awfully_ vulgar expression, Chris: it
makes me feel like one of those street women.  I am going to meet a
girl friend."

"Where are you going, Evie?" Christina quietly insisted.

"I am going to see Ronnie, if you want to know.  You make me tell
lies when I don't want to," snapped Evie.  "Why can't you leave me
alone?"

Christina sighed.  "Why don't I, indeed," she agreed wearily.  "What
is to be, will be: I can't be responsible for your life, and it is
stupid of me to try.  Go ahead, Evie, and good luck."

A remark which considerably mystified Evie Colebrook.  But, as she
told herself, she had quite enough to try her without worrying about
Christina and her morbid talk.  The principal cause of her worry was
an exasperating lapse of memory.  In the agitation of the proposal,
she had forgotten whether Ronnie had asked her to meet him in the
park at the usual place, or whether she had agreed to go straight to
the flat.  An arrangement had been made one way or the other, she was
sure.  She decided to go to the flat.

Beryl came to the same decision.

"Steppe and I are going to Ronnie's place tonight," said Dr.
Merville.  "It will be a sort of--er--board meeting as Jan is leaving
London tomorrow.  I haven't had a chance of asking him about a matter
which affects me personally.  You do not read the financial
newspapers, do you, Beryl?  You haven't heard from the Fennings, or
any of the people you know--er--any unpleasant comment?"

She shook her head again.

"Jan was asking me again about--you, Beryl.  I can't get him to talk
about anything else.  I think you will have to decide one way or the
other."  He was pulling on his gloves, an operation which gave him an
excuse for looking elsewhere than at her.  "It struck me that he was
growing impatient.  You are to please yourself--but the suspense is
rather getting on my nerves."

She made no answer until, accompanying him to the door, she made a
sudden resolve.

"How long will you be at Ronnie's?" she asked.

"An hour, no longer, I think, why?"

"I wondered," she said.

It was lamentably, wickedly weak in her; a servile surrender to
expediency.  She knew it, but in her desperation she seized the one
straw that floated upon the inexorable current which was carrying her
to physical and moral damnation.  Ronnie must save her: Ronnie, to
whom she had best right of appeal.  It was a bitter, hateful
confession, that, despising him, she loved him.  She loved the two
halves of the perfect man.  Sault and Ronnie Morelle were the very
soul and body of love.  She loathed herself--yet she knew it was the
truth.  Ronnie must help.  He might not be so vile as she believed
him to be: there might be a spirit in him, a something to which she
could reach.  The instinct of honor, some spark of courage and
justice transmitted to him by the men and women who bred him.
Anything was better than Steppe, she told herself wildly, anything!
She dreamed of him, terrible dreams that revolted her to wakefulness:
by day she kept him from her mind.  And then came night and the
unclean dreams that made her very soul writhe in an agony of shame,
lest, in dreaming, she had exposed a foulness which consciously she
had seen in herself.

If Ronnie failed--

("Ronnie will fail: you know he will fail," whispered the voice of
reason.)

She could but try.




XI

A foreign-looking servant opened the door to Evie Colebrook.

"Mr. Morelle is out, Mademoiselle, is he expecting you?"

She was in a flutter, ready to fly on the least excuse.  "Yes--but I
will come back again."

François opened the door wide.  "If Mademoiselle will wait a
little--perhaps Mr. Morelle will return very soon."

François was an ugly, bullet-headed little man, and his name was a
war creation.  It was in fact "Otto", and he was a German Swiss.

She came timidly into the big room and was impressed by the solid
luxury of it.  She would not sit, preferring to walk about, delighted
with the opportunity of making so leisurely an inspection of a room
hallowed by such associations.  So this was where Ronnie worked so
hard.  She laid her hand affectionately upon the big black table.
François watched her a little sadly.  He had a sister of her age and,
in his eyes at least, as pretty.  Moreover, François had grown tired
of his employer.  Men servants were in demand and he would have no
difficulty in finding another job.  Except for this: Ronald paid
extraordinarily good wages.

He saw her pick up a framed photograph.  "This is Mr. Morelle's
portrait, isn't it?  I don't like it."

Evie felt on terms with the man.  It seemed natural that she should.
She had wondered if François would be at Palermo, too.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, that is his portrait."

Evie frowned critically at the picture.  "It is not half good looking
enough."

"That is possible, Mademoiselle," said François, without enthusiasm.

He had never done such a thing before.  He marveled at his own
temerity, even now.

"Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say somethings?" he asked,
and as he grew more and more agitated, his English took a quainter
turn.

Evie opened her eyes in astonishment.  "No, of course not."

"And you must promise not to tell Mr. Morelle."

"It depends," hesitated the girl, and then, "I promise."

"Mademoiselle," said François a little huskily, "I have a little
sister so big as you in Switzerland.  Her name is Freda, and,
Mademoiselle, when I see you here, I think of her, and I say, I will
speak to this good young lady.  Mademoiselle, I do not like to see
you here!"  He said this dramatically.

Evie went crimson.  "I don't know what you mean."

"I have make you cross," said François, in an agony of self-reproach.
"You think I am silly, but I speak with a good heart."

There was only one way out of this awkward conversation.  Evie became
easily confidential.  She spoke as a woman of the world to a man of
the world.

"Of course you did," she said.  "I appreciate what you say, François.
If I saw a girl--well--compromising herself, I mean a girl who hadn't
my experience of the world, I'd say the same as you, but--"

A knock at the outer door interrupted her.  François shot an
imploring glance in her direction, and she nodded.

"There you are, Ronnie--didn't you say I was to come straight here?"

"Hello, Evie," he seemed a little annoyed.  "I told you I would meet
you at the Statue."

Evie was abashed.  "Oh, I am sorry," she began, but he went on.

"Any letters, François?"

"Yes, M'sieur, on the desk."

"All right, clear out."

But François lingered.  "M'sieur."

"Well?" asked Ronnie, turning with a scowl.

François was ill at ease.

"Tomorrow my brother is coming from Interlaken, may I have an evening
for myself, M'sieur?"

Ronald was angry for many reasons: he was not in the mood to grant
favors.

"You have Sundays and you have your holidays.  That's enough," he
said.

François went out crestfallen.

"I suppose you think I'm unkind," said Ronnie with a laugh, as he
helped take off her coat.  "But if you give that sort of people an
inch, they'll take the earth."

He dropped his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"It is lovely to have you here.  You're two hours too soon--"

"Am I?" she asked in alarm.  "I was so upset last night that I don't
know what you said."

"I said ten o'clock, but it doesn't matter.  Only François would have
been gone by then.  How lovely you are, Evie!  How slim and straight
and desirable!"

Suddenly she was in his arms, his face against hers.  She struggled,
pushing him away, escaping at last, too breathless for speech.

"You smother me," she gasped.  "Don't kiss me like that, Ronnie.
Let's talk.  You know I oughtn't to be here," she urged.  "But I did
so want to see your beautiful house."

He did not take his eyes from her.  "You are going to do what I asked
you?"

She nodded, shook her head, her heart going furiously.  "I don't
know--Ronald, I do love you, but I'm so--so frightened."

He drew her down to him and she sat demurely on the edge of the deep
lounge chair he occupied.

"And I'll take you to--where shall I take you?" he bantered.

"Somewhere in Italy, you said."

"Palermo!  Glorious Palermo--darling, think of what it will be, just
you and I.  No more snatched meetings and disagreeable sisters, eh?"

Evie was thinking: he did not break in upon her thoughts.  She was
good to see.  More attractive in her silence, for she had the
slightest of cockney twangs.

"I wish Christina could come," she said at last; a note of defiance
was in her tone.  "A change like that would be splendid for her, and
I've always planned to give her one."

"Christina?  Good lord!  Come with us?  You mad little thing, I'm not
running a sanatorium."

He laughed, leaning back in the chair to look up at her.

"Ronnie, I know it is awful nerve on my part--but if you love me--"

He expected this.  The philosophies he imparted seldom survived the
acid test which opportunity applied.

"I suppose," she went on nervously, "it would be too much of a
come-down to think of--of marrying me?"

"Marriage!"  His voice was reproving, his manner that of a man
grievously hurt.

"You know what I think--what we both think about marriage, Evie?"

"It is--it is respectable anyway."

"Respectable!" he scoffed.  "Who respects you?  Who thinks any worse
of you if you aren't married?  People respect you for your
independence.  Marriage!  It is a form of bondage invented by
professional Christians who make a jolly good living out of it."

"Well, religion is something.  And the Bible--"

Ronnie jumped up.

"We'll try the luck, Evie!"  He went to a shelf and took down a book.

Evie was a dubious spectator.  The fallibility of the method seemed
open to question when such enormous issues were at stake.  Yet she
accepted a trifle reluctantly, the little sword he handed to her, and
thrust it between the pages of the closed book.

She opened it at the passage the sword had found.

"'Woe unto you--'" she began, but he snatched the book from her hands.

"No, silly," he said, and read glibly.  "'There is no fear in love:
perfect love casteth out fear!'"

Evie was skeptical.

"You made it up!" she accused.  "I mean, you only pretended it was
there.  I know that passage.  I learned it at school--it is in John."

He chuckled, delighted at her astuteness.  "You little bishop," he
said, and kissed her.  "Now sit and amuse yourself.  I want to speak
to François."

He was on his way to the pantry to dismiss François to his home when
the bell sounded.  He stopped François with a gesture.




XII

"Don't open the door for a minute," he said in a low voice.  "Evie,
will you come tomorrow night--no not tomorrow.  Today is Monday, come
on Friday."

"Yes, dear."  She was glad to escape.

"Through there," he pointed.  "François, let mademoiselle out by the
pantry door after you have answered the bell."

Who was the visitor?  People did not call upon him except by
invitation--except Steppe.  And Jan Steppe came slowly and
suspiciously into the hall.  Ronnie scarcely noticed the doctor who
followed him.

"Why were you keeping me waiting?" he growled.

"François could not have heard the bell," answered Ronnie easily.

"That's a lie."  He looked round the room and sniffed.  "You had a
woman here, as usual, I suppose?"

Ronnie looked injured.

"M'm.  Some shop girl," insisted the big man.  "One of your pickups,
huh?"

"I tell you I have been alone all the evening," said Ronnie,
resigned.  "François, isn't that so?"

Jan Steppe saved the servant from needless perjury.

"He's as big a liar as you are.  You'll burn your fingers one of
these days."  He had a deep, harsh laugh, entirely without merriment.
"You had a little trouble about one last year, didn't you?"

Merville, impatient and fretful, broke in.  "Let him alone, Steppe.
I want to get this business over."

Steppe stared at him.  "Oh, you want to get it over, do you?  We'll
hurry things up for you, doctor!"

Ronnie was interested.  He had never heard Steppe speak to Merville
in that tone.  There had been a marked change in Jan's attitude, even
in the past few days.  However, Ronnie was chiefly concerned in
considering all the possible reasons for this call.  The doctor
explained and Ronnie breathed again.

"We'll sit here," said Steppe.

He sat down in Ronnie's library chair and taking a bundle of
documents from his inside pocket, he threw them on the table.

"Here are the papers you want, Merville--and by the way!"  He turned
in his chair and glowered at Ronnie.  "Do you remember we pooled the
Midwell Traction shares, Morelle?"  His voice was ominous.

"Er--yes--of course," said Ronnie, quaking.

"We undertook to hold the stock until we mutually agreed as to the
moment we should unload, huh?" Steppe demanded deliberately.

Ronald made an ineffectual attempt to appear unconcerned.

"And we undertook not to part with a share until the stock reached
forty-three.  Do you remember, huh?"

"Yes," said Ronnie, and the big man's fist crashed down on the table.

"You're sure you remember?" he shouted.  "You sold at thirty-five.
Do that again, and d'ye know what I'll do?"

"I'm sure Ronald wouldn't--" began Merville, but was silenced.

"You shut up!  It didn't matter so much that Traction slumped.  But
you broke faith with me, you rat!"

"Don't lose your temper, Steppe," said the other sulkily, "it was a
mistake, I tell you.  My broker sold without authority."

"Whilst we are on the subject of the Traction shares, I want to ask
about the statement I filed in regard to the assets of the company.
Was it right?"  For a week the doctor had been trying to put this
question.  "Of we three, I'm the only director--you're not in it and
Ronnie isn't in it, if there is anything wrong, I should be the goat?"

Steppe's voice was milder.  Here was a topic to be avoided.

"Huh!  You're all right.  What are you frightened about?"

"I'm not frightened, but you had the draft?"

"It is in the safe," said Steppe with some satisfaction.

"Steppe, how do we stand there?" asked the doctor urgently.  "I know
Moropulos was doing work for you of a sort.  What was his position
and Sault's?  Is that the safe which Sault made?  He told me about it
some time ago."

Steppe turned his head again in Ronald's direction.

"You went to the trial!  You saw him!  You've seen him before--what
do you think of him--clever, huh?"

"Well, I don't know--"

"Of course he's clever, you fool," said the other contemptuously.
"If you had his brains and his principles, you'd be a big man.
Remember that--a big man."

"I am attending the execution," said Ronnie, "the under sheriff is
admitting three press reporters, and I am to be one of them."

Steppe eyed him gloomily, groping after the mind of the man who could
fear him, yet did not fear to see a man done to death.

"I'll tell you men all about Moropulos and Sault because you're all
tarred with my brush.  This is the big pull of Sault.  A pull he's
never used.  Moropulos and I had business together.  He was on one
side of a wall called 'Law', huh?  I was on the other.  The
comfortable side.  And he used to hand things over.  That put me a
bit on his side.  There were letters and certain other documents
which we had to keep, yet were dangerous to keep.  But you might
always want 'em.  I was scared over some shares that--well, I
oughtn't have had them.  And that's how Sault came to make the
'Destroying Angel', that's a good name!  I christened it.  There was
a combination lock, the word being known only to Moropulos, Sault and
myself.  If you used the wrong combination--any combination but the
right one, the acids are released and the contents of the safe
destroyed.  If you try to cut through the sides--the water runs out,
down drops a plunger with the same result.  When Moropulos was killed
I tried to get at it, but the police were there before me.  There was
a typewritten note pasted on the top of the safe, telling exactly
what would happen if they monkeyed with it.  They haven't dared to
touch it.  It's in the Black Museum today with enough stuff inside to
send me--well, a hell of a long way."

"Suppose this man tells?" asked Merville fearfully.

"He won't tell.  That kind of man doesn't squeal.  If it had been
Ronald Morelle, I'd have been on my way to South America by now.  A
word from Sault and I'm--" he snapped his fingers, "but do you think
it worries me?  I can sleep and go about my work without a second's
fear.  That's the kind of man I am.  No nerves--look at my hand."  He
thrust out his heavy paw stiffly.  "Steady as a rock, huh?  Good boy,
Sault!"

"I met him once--" began Ronnie.

"I've met him more than once," said the grim Steppe.  "A man with
strange compelling eyes, the only fellow that ever frightened me!"
He looked at Ronald curiously.  "It is unbelievable that a
white-livered devil like you can see him die.  It would make me sick.
And yet you, whose nerves ought to be rags considering the filthy
life you live, can stand calmly by--ugh!  I don't know how you can do
it!  To see a man's soul go out!"

Ronnie laughed quickly.  "Sault's rather keen on his soul.  Boyle,
the governor, says he recited Henley's poem on his way to the cells."

But Steppe did not laugh.  "Soul?  H'm.  He made me believe in
something--soul or spirit or--something.  He dominated me.  Do you
believe in the soul, Merville?"

"Yes, I do.  A transient _x_ that only abides in the body at the will
of its host."

Ronnie groaned wearily.  "Oh, God, are you going to lecture?" he
asked and Jan Steppe roared at him.

"Shut up!  Go on, Merville.  Do you mean that it leaves the body
before--death?"

"I think so," said Merville thoughtfully.  "I've often stood by the
side of a patient desperately sick, and suddenly felt in my body his
despair and weakness, and seen him brighten and flush with my
strength."

"Really?"  Steppe's voice was intense.  "Do you mean that your
spirits have exchanged themselves?"

Dr. Merville flicked the ash of his cigar into the fireplace.  "Call
it 'spirit', 'soul', 'X', anything you like--call it individuality.
There has been a momentary exchange."

"How do you explain it?"

"Science doesn't explain everything," said Merville.  "Science
accepts a whole lot of what we call 'incommensurables'."

"H'm," Steppe pushed away the papers and rose.  "H'm.  That'll do for
the night.  Keep those papers, you fellows, and digest them.  You
going out, Morelle?"

"No, would you like me to go anywhere with you?"  Ronnie was eager to
serve.

"No," shortly.  "Merville, I'm dining with you tomorrow.  And I hope
Beryl won't have a headache this time.  I've got a box at the
Pantheon."

The doctor was obviously embarrassed.

"She--well, she isn't very bright just now."

"Let her be bright enough to come to dinner tomorrow night," said
Steppe.

The door banged and Ronnie drew a deep breath.

"Thank God," he said piously.




XIII

François went after them, not unhappy to detach himself from a tense
and threatening atmosphere, his resentment against his employer
somewhat modified when he reached home, by a letter from his visiting
brother announcing the postponement of his departure from Switzerland.

Therefore it was Ronnie who answered the sharp ring of the bell.
When he saw the girl his jaw dropped.

"Really, Beryl!  You place me in a most awkward position.  Whatever
made you come?  Steppe was here--suppose he came back?  Why didn't
you bring somebody with you?"

He was flustered and scared.  Steppe might return at any moment.

"I'm sorry I have outraged the proprieties," said Beryl with a little
smile.  "Did that child from the druggist's have a chaperon?"

"Eh?"  Ronnie was startled.

"I saw her come in and I saw her go out.  I've been waiting for an
opportunity of seeing you.  She's pretty, but, oh, Ronald, she's only
a baby!"

Ronnie made a quick recovery from his surprise.  If she had seen
Evie, she had also seen Steppe and must be sure that he had gone.
She would probably know from her father what were their plans for the
night.

"I give you my word of honor, Beryl," said he earnestly, "that she
merely came to see me about her sister--you know her, Christina, I
think she is called.  Evie is very anxious that I should help send
her abroad.  As far as Evie is concerned, you can put your mind at
rest.  I give you my solemn word of honor that I have never a& much
as held her hand."

She knew he was lying, but tonight of all nights she must accept his
word.  She was in a fever: it was almost painful to hold fast to the
last shreds of her failing reserve.

"Ronald."  Her voice was tremulous and he braced himself for a scene.
"You don't want me to marry Steppe?"

So that was it.  And he had thought she had accepted the position so
admirably.

"Ronald, you know it would be--death to me--worse than death to me.
Can't you--can't you use your imagination?"

Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a little of his
poise.  She had come as a suppliant, and would not be difficult to
handle.  The old Beryl, polished, cynical mistress of herself and her
emotions, might have beaten him down; induced God knows what,
extravagant promises.

"I don't want to talk about what has happened.  I am not reproaching
you or appealing to any sense of duty but--"

She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves into tight
spirals.  He said nothing, holding his arguments in reserve against
her exhaustion.

"You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie.  You do know--Steppe
wants to marry me?"

He nodded.

"Do you realize what that means--to me, Ronnie?"

"He's not a bad fellow," protested Ronnie.  "Really, Beryl, I never
dreamed you were going to take this line.  Is it decent?"

"He's--he's awful, Ronnie, you know he's awful.  He's hideous, he's
just animal all through.  Animal with reasoning powers,
gross--horrible.  You liked me, Ronnie," she was pleading now.
"Why--why don't you marry me?  I love you--I must have loved you.  I
could learn to respect you so easily.  They say you're rotten, but
you're of my own kind.  Ronnie, don't you know what it means to me to
say this--don't you know?"

She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince.
Hysteria--suppose Steppe did come back?  He went moist at the thought.

"Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed.  "It would save me.  It would
save father, too.  He would accept the accomplished fact, and be
relieved.  Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body.  I'd serve you
as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie.  I'd
be--I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know--don't you realize
what I am saying--?"

"My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose
Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is.  I'm sure you'd be happy.
I'm awfully fond of you--"

"Then take me away!  I'll go with you tonight--now, now!  Take me.
Ronnie, I'll go--now--this very minute and I'll bless you.  He
wouldn't want me then.  I know him."

"I--I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered.

"Take me," she urged desperately.  "There is a train tonight for
Ostende, take me.  Take me, Ronald, I could love you--I could love
you in gratitude--save me from this gross man."

Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away.  "You don't know what
you're talking about," he said shrilly.  "Steppe would kill me.
Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe."

That was the end, her last throw in the game.  Ronnie was Ronnie.
That was all.  She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the
uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self.

That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret.
Stampeded--she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear.

"I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs.  "You need not get
me a cab--this time.  And Moropulos cannot photograph me.  I might
have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears.  I
couldn't do that.  What a coward--but I won't reproach you, Ronnie."

She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly.  This time he took
no risks.  He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out.
Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves
were jangled.




XIV

How quickly the days flew past!  Beryl had a letter from Sir John
Maxton one Saturday:


"I have seen our friend for the third time since the sentence; you
know that on Tuesday he 'goes the way'--those are his own words.
What can I tell you of him.  Beryl, that you do not know?  He has
become one of my dearest friends.  How strange that seems, written!
Yet it is true and when he asked me if I would come and see him on
the morning, I agreed.  In France it is the custom of the defending
advocate to be present--I am glad it is not necessary in England.
Yet I shall go and I pray that I may be as fearless as he.

"He spoke of you yesterday and of 'Christina'--that is Miss
Colebrook, isn't it?  But so cheerfully!

"The officers of the prison are fond of him and even the chief
warder, a hard-bitten Guardsman, who was the principal flogger at
Pentonville for many years, speaks of him affectionately.  Completely
untroubled--that is how I should describe Ambrose.  He has been
allowed the privilege of a reader, one of the warders, an educated
man who acts as librarian to the prison.  He has chosen Gibbon's
'Roman Empire' and on my suggestion, he is concentrating on the
chapters dealing with the creation of the Byzantine Empire.  The
story of Belesarius fascinates him; Belesarius is a character after
his own heart, as I knew would be the case.  The chaplain sees him
frequently and Ambrose is politely attentive.  It is rather like a
village schoolmaster instructing Newton in astronomy.  Ambrose is so
far advanced that the good man's efforts to bring him to an
understanding are just a little pathetic.  'I can't understand Mr.
Pinley's God,' he said to me when I called immediately after the
clergyman's visit.  'He is a slave's conception of a
super-master--the superstition of a fighting tribe.'  Ambrose holds
to his own faith, which is comprehended in Henley's poem 'Out of the
dark which covers me.'  He recites this continuously.

"I said that he spoke of you and Christina.  I asked him if he would
like to see you both, knowing that if he did you would face the
ordeal.  But he said that it was unnecessary."


On the Monday evening Christina came to the house.  They did not
sleep that night.

"I suppose we're neurotic, but I never felt saner," said Beryl, "or
more peacefully minded.  And yet if it were somebody I did not know,
some servant with whom I was just on nodding terms, I should be a
bundle of nerves.  And it is Ambrose!  Christina, are we just keyed
up, over-strained--shall we collapse?  I have wondered."

"I shall not break," said Christina, "I have been worrying about
you--"

Yet it was Christina on whom the chimes of the little French clock on
the mantelpiece fell like the knell of doom.

"--six--seven--eight--nine!" counted Beryl, tense, exalted.

It was over.  Ambrose Sault had gone the way.

"Goodbye, Ambrose!"

Christina's voice was a wail.  Before Beryl could reach her, she had
slipped to the floor in a dead faint.




XV

Ronald Morelle came down the carpeted stairs of the House of Shame,
and there was a half smile on his lips, as though the echoes of
laughter were still vibrating through this silent mansion and he must
respond.

The hall was in darkness except for the light admitted by a
semi-circular transom.  Turning his head, he saw that the door of the
salon was ajar, and he hesitated.  He had never seen the salon by
daylight, only at night, when the soft lights were burning and silver
chandeliers glowed with tiny yellow globes.

He pushed open the door.  The darkness here had been relieved by
somebody who had opened one window and unshuttered two others.  The
room was in disorder, chairs remained where the sitters had left
them, and the cold gray light of morning looked upon tarnished
gilding and faded damask, and the tawdry litter of the night before.
Merciless, pitiless, contemptuous was the sneer of the clean dawn.

Ronald's smile deepened.  And then he caught a reflection of himself
in one of the long mirrors.  He looked pale and drawn.  He shivered.
Not because the mirror gave back the illusion of a sick man--he knew
well enough he was healthy--but because he glimpsed the something in
his eyes, the leering devil that sat behind the levers and turned the
switches of desire.

A car was waiting for him at the end of the slumbering street.
Madame did not like cars at the door in the early hours of the
morning, and he stepped in, wrapping his coat about him.

The sun had not yet risen and Wechester was a two hours run with a
clear road.

Sault was in Wechester Gaol awaiting the dread hour, and from
somewhere in Lancashire, a gaunt-faced barber who had marked in his
diary the date of an engagement, had taken train to Ronald's
destination, carrying with him the supple straps that would bind the
wrists of the living and be slipped from the wrists of the dead.

The clear sky gave promise of a perfect winter day, but the morning
air was cold.  He pulled up the windows of the car and wished he had
bought a newspaper or book to wile away the time.  In two hours the
soul of Ambrose Sault--

The soul!  What was the soul?  Was it Driesh's "Entelechy;" that
"innnermost secret" of animation?  Was there substance to the soul?
Was it material?  A flame, Merville had once called it, a flame from
a common fire.  Could the flame leap at will from a man's body and
leave him--what?  A lunatic, a madman, a beast without reason?
Ronald shrugged away the speculation, but the scholar in him was
uneasy and insensibly he came back to the problem.

The promise of fair weather was belied as the car drew nearer to
Wechester.  A mist, thin and white, lay like a blanket on the
streets, and Ronald's car "hawked" its way into the still thicker
mist which lay on Wechester Common.  The car drew up at the prison
gates, and he looked at his watch.  It wanted a quarter of nine.

Ronnie saw a thin man, thinly clad, walking up and down outside.  His
hair was long and fell over his coat collar, his nose was red with
the cold, and now and again he stopped to stamp his feet.  Ronnie
wondered who he was.

A wicket opened at his ring, and he showed his authority through the
bars before, with a clang and a clatter of turning locks and the thud
of many bolts, the door swung open and he found himself in a square
stone room furnished with a desk, a high stool and one chair.

The warder took his authority and read it, made an entry in the hook,
and rang a bell.  It was a cheerless room, in spite of the fire,
thought Ronald.  Three sets of handcuffs garlanded above the chimney
piece; a suggestive truncheon lay on brackets near the warder's desk,
and within reach of his hand, and a framed copy of Prison Regulations
only served to emphasize the bareness of the remaining wall.

Again the clatter and click of the lock and another warder came in.

"Take this gentleman to the governor's room," said the doorkeeper.

Ronald was amused because the second warder put his hand on his arm
as though he were a prisoner, and did not remove his hand even when
he was unlocking the innumerable gates, doors and grilles which stood
between liberty and the prisoners.

The governor's room was scarcely more cheerful than the gatekeeper's
lodge.  There was a desk piled with papers, a worn leather armchair
and an office smell which was agreeable and human.

The governor shook hands with the visitor, whom he had met before,
and Ronald nodded to the two other pressmen who were waiting.

Then they took him out into the yard.

The warder led the way, and the doctor followed, then came the
governor and last, save for the warder who brought up the rear, went
Ronald Morelle, without a single tremor of heart, to the house of
doom.

To a great glass-roofed hall with tier upon tier of galleries and
yellow cell doors, and near at hand (that which was nearest to them
as they came in) one cell, door ajar.  Outside three blankets neatly
folded were stacked one on each other.  They were the blankets in
which the condemned man had slept.

Here was a wait.  A nerve-racking wait to those with nerves.  Ronald
had none.  A small door opened into the yard and he strolled through
it and found himself in a small black courtyard.  Twenty paces away
was a little building which looked like a tool house.  There were two
gray-black sliding doors and these were open.  All he could see was a
plain clean interior with a scrubbed floor, and a yellow rope that
hung from somewhere in the roof.  He was joined by an officer whom he
took to be the chief warder.

Physically Ronald was a coward.  He admitted as much to himself.  He
feared pain, he shrank from danger.  In his questionable business
transactions he guarded himself in every way from unpleasant
consequences, employing two lawyers who checked one another's
conclusions.

Yet he could watch the pain of others and never turn a hair.  He had
witnessed capital operations and had found stimulus in the experience
which the hospital theatre brings to the enthusiastic scientist.  He
had seen death administered by the law in England, America and
France.  Once he stood by the side of a guillotine in a little
northern town of France and watched three shrieking men dragged to
"the widow" and was the least affected of the spectators, until the
blood of one splashed his hand.  And then it was only disgust he
felt.  He himself was incapable of violent action.  He might torture
the helpless, but he would have to be sure they were helpless.

"Chilly this morning, sir," said the chief warder conversationally,
and said that he did not know what was happening to the weather
nowadays.  "Is this the first time you've been inside?"

"In a prison?  Oh lord, no," said Ronnie.

"Ah!"  The warder jerked his head toward the door.  "On this kind of
job?"

"Yes, twice before."

The officer looked glum.

"Not very pleasant.  It upsets all the routine of the establishment.
Can't get the men out for exercise till after it is over.  They sit
in their cells and brood--we always have a lot of trouble afterwards."

"How is he going to take it?" asked Ronald.

"Who, the prisoner?"  Mr. Marsden smiled.  "Oh, he's going to take it
all right.  They never give any trouble--and he--he'll go laughing,
you mark my words.  We like him, here--that's a funny thing to say,
isn't it?  But I assure you, I've had to take three men off
observation duty--they are the warders who sit in the cell with
him--they got so upset.  It is a fact.  Old fellows who'd been in the
prison service for years.  Here's the deputy."

A tall man in a trench coat had come through the grille.

"Good morning, Morelle, have you seen the governor?"

Ronnie nodded.

"He won't be here for the--er--event," said Major Boyle.  "Between
ourselves, he said he couldn't stand it.  An extraordinary thing.
Have you seen Sir John Maxton?"

"No, is he here?" asked Ronnie interested.

"He's in the cell with the man--there he is."

Sir John's face was gray: he seemed to have shrunken.  He had not
expected to see Ronnie, but he made no comment on his presence.

"Good morning, Boyle.  Good morning, Ronnie.  I have just said
goodbye to him."

"Aren't you staying?"

"No--he understands," said Sir John briefly.  Then he seemed to be
conscious of Ronnie's presence.  The deputy had gone back to the hall.

"Ronnie, how could you come here this morning--and meet the eyes of
this man so soon to face God?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Ronnie's lips curled.

"I suppose you feel in your heart that it is a great injustice, that
your noble-minded murderer should go to a shameful death, whilst a
leprous but respectable member of society like myself walks free
through that gate!"

"I would wish no man this morning's agony," said the other.

"Suppose you were God--"

"Ronnie, have you no decency!"

"Ob, yes--but suppose you were: would you transfer the soul and the
individuality of us two, Ambrose Sault and Ronnie Morelle?"

"God forgive me, I would, for you are altogether beastly!"

Ronnie laughed again.

There was the sound of a slamming door and a man came into the yard,
squat, unshaven, a little nervous.  A derby hat was on the back of
his head, and in his hands, clasped behind him, was a leathern strap.

"There's the hangman," said Ronnie.  "Ask him what he thinks of
murderers' souls!  What is death, Sir John?  Look at those tablets on
the wall--just a few initials.  Yet they sleep as soundly as the
great in the Abbey under their splendid monuments.  Though they were
hanged by the neck until they were dead.  You would like God to
change us.  One of those changes which Merville talked about the
other night--it was a pity you weren't there."

Sir John said nothing: he walked to the grille and a warder unlocked
the steel door.  For a second he stood and then, as the hangman went
into the hall, he passed out through the opened gate.

Presently two warders came from the hall and then another two,
walking solemnly in slow step, and then a bound man; a great rugged
figure who overshadowed the clergyman by his side.  The drone of the
burial service came to Ronald Morelle and he took off his hat.

Sault was reciting something.  His powerful voice drowned the thin
voice of the minister:

"It matters not how straight the Gate--"

He paced in time to the metre.

"How charged with punishment the scroll,

"I am the master of my fate--"

Nearer, and yet nearer, and then their eyes met!

The debonair worldling, silk hat in hand, his hair brushed and
pomaded, his immaculate cravat set faultlessly--and the other!  That
big gray-faced man with the mane of hair, his rough clothes and his
collarless shirt!

They looked at one another for a fraction of a second, eye to eye,
and Ronald felt something was drawing at him, tugging at his very
heart strings.  The eyes of the man were luminous, appealing,
terrible.  And then with a crash the world stood still--all animate
creation was frozen stiff, petrified, motionless, and Ronald swayed
for a moment.

Then a firm hand on his arm pushed him forward.  He stepped forth
mechanically.  He had a curious, almost painful feeling of
restriction.  And then he realized, with a half-sob, that his hands
were bound behind him, strapped so tightly that they were swollen and
tingling, and warders were holding his arms.  He tried to speak, but
no sound came, and looking up he saw--!

Once more he was looking into eyes, but they were the eyes of
himself!  Ronald Morelle was standing watching him with sorrow and
pity.  Ronald Morelle was watching himself!  And then again the
urgent hand pressed him forward and he paced mechanically.

"----I know that my Redeemer liveth----"

The little clergyman was walking by his side, reading tremulously.
Ronald looked down at himself, his shoe was hurting him, somebody had
left a nail there and he cursed François: but those were not his
shoes he was looking at, they were great rough boots and his trousers
were old and frayed and there was a shiny patch on his knee.

"--Man that is born of a woman hath but little time upon this earth,
and that time is filled with misery--"

He walked like one in a dream into the shed and felt the trap sag
under him.  The executioner--it must be the executioner, he thought,
stooped and strapped his legs tightly.  Ronald wondered what would
happen.  It was an absurd mistake, of course, rather amusing in a
way--François had not been paid his month's salary, and François was
meeting his brother today from Interlaken, Interlaken in the Oberland.

The man put a cloth over his face--it was linen, unbleached and
pungent.  When the executioner passed the elastic loops behind his
ears, he released one too quickly and it stung.

"It is not me, it is not me," said Ronald numbly, "it is the body of
Ambrose Sault--the gross body of Ambrose Sault!  I'm standing outside
watching!  It is Sault who is being hanged--Sault!  I am
Morelle--Morelle of Balliol--Major Boyle," he screamed aloud.  "Major
Boyle--you know me--I am Morelle--"

Yet his body was huge--he felt its grossness, its size, the strength
of the corded muscles of the arm; the roaring fury of the life which
surged within him.  He heard a squeak--the lever was being pulled--

With a crash the trap gave way and the body of Ambrose Sault swung
for a second and was dead, but it was the soul of Ronald Morelle that
went forth to the eternal spaces of infinity.

The prison clock struck nine.




_BOOK THE FOURTH_


I

A warder came round the edge of the pit with his arms extended as the
executioner, reaching out his hand, steadied the quivering rope.  The
prison doctor looked down the pit.

"He's all right," he said vaguely.

The tremulous clergyman was the last to go; backing out of the death
chamber he watched the warders close and lock the doors.

The body of Ronald Morelle settled its top hat firmly on its shapely
head and looked down at the little parson.  There were tears in that
good man's eyes.

"He was not bad, he was not bad," he murmured shakily.  "I wish he
had repented the murder."

"There was nothing to repent," said Ronald quietly, "if repentance
were possible, the murder was unnecessary."

His voice was strangely deep and rich.  Hearing himself, he wondered.

The minister looked up at him in surprise.

"He said exactly the same thing to me this morning," he said, "and in
almost identical words; the poor fellow expressed his thoughts in
language which seemed unnatural remembering his illiteracy."

"Poor soul," said Ronnie thoughtfully.  "Poor lonely, lonely soul!"

He took the minister's arm in his and they walked back to the prison
hall.  There was a surplice to be shed, devotional books to be packed
in a little black bag.

The condemned cell was being turned out by two men in convict's garb.
One was using a broom, sweeping with long, leisurely strokes, and his
face had a suggestion of sadness.  The other was carrying out the
remainder of the bedding and washing the utensils which the dead man
had used.  All this Ronald noticed with a curiously detached interest.

Shepherded back again to the governor's office, there was a form to
be signed, testifying that he had witnessed the execution which had
been carried out in a proper and decorous manner.  Ronald took the
pen and hesitated a second before he signed.  The appearance of his
signature on paper interested him--it was unfamiliar.

"You've seen these executions before, Mr. Morelle?" said the
under-sheriff.

"Oh, yes," said Ronald quietly.  "I do not think I shall come again.
The waste of it, the malice of it!"

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," said the under-sheriff
gruffly and Ronald smiled sadly.

"The Old Testament is excellent as literature but in parts diabolical
as a code of morals," he said, and went through the porter's lodge to
the world.

There was a small crowd, some twenty or thirty people grouped at a
distance from the gate.  Their interest was concentrated upon the
kneeling figure that confronted Ronnie as he walked out of the lodge.

"He comes here every time we have a hanging," said the gateman in
Ronnie's ear.

It was the thin man in the threadbare coat; he knelt bareheaded, his
blue hands clasped, his voice hoarse with a cold.

"--let him be the child of Thy mercies--pardon, we beseech Thee, O
Lord our God, this our brother who comes before Thy seat of
Judgment--"

Ronnie listened to the husky voice.  Presently and with a final
supplication, the man got up and dusted his knees.

"For whom are you praying?" asked Ronnie gently.

"For Ambrose Sault, brother," answered the man.

"For Ambrose Sault?" repeated Ronnie absently, "that is very sweet."
He looked thoughtfully at the man and then walked away.

Following the Common road that would have taken him to Wechester, he
heard a car coming behind him and presently the glittering bonnet
moved past him and stopped.

"Excuse me, sir."

Ronnie looked round.  He did not know the chauffeur who was touching
his cap.  And yet he had seen his face.

"I thought you may have missed the car--I had to park away from the
prison."

Of course!  He breathed a heavy sigh as the problem was solved.  It
was his own car and the chauffeur's name was Parker.

"I haven't the slightest idea where I was going," he laughed.  "You
look cold, Parker.  We had better stop in Wechester and get
breakfast."

Parker could only gape.

"Yes, sir," he stammered, "but don't worry about me, sir.  I shall be
all right."

Ronnie was puzzling again.  Then he had it.  The Red Lion!  There was
an inn just outside of Wechester; he had stopped there before.
Apparently Parker expected some such directions.

They left the mists behind them at Wechester and came to the Red Lion.

A pretty girl waitress at the hotel saw Ronnie and tossed her head.
Her manner was cold.  He couldn't remember.

That was the oddness of it.  He had lost some of his memories.  They
were completely blotted out from his mind.  Why was this pretty girl
so cross?  He was to learn.  Finishing his breakfast he strolled out
into the big yard where the car was garaged.  The chauffeur was at
his breakfast.

"Hi!  I want to have a talk with you!"

A man was approaching.  He looked like a groom, wearing gaiters as he
did, and he was in his shirtsleeves.  Moreover, his style and
appearance was hostile.

"You're the man who was staying here for the trial!" challenged the
newcomer.

"Was I--I suppose so."

"Was you!" sneered the groom savagely.  "Yes, you was!  Staying here
with a young woman and you went and interfered with my young woman.
Yes, interfered--said things to her."

His voice went up the scale until he was shouting.  There was a stir
of feet and men and women came to the doors of outhouses and kitchens.

"Doesn't it strike you that you are making the young lady feel
uncomfortable--if she is here," said Ronnie seriously. "You are
shouting what should be whispered--no, no, Parker, please do not
interfere."

"I'll tell you what does strike me," bellowed the groom, rolling up
his sleeves, "that I'm going to give you the damnedest lacing you
ever had--put 'em up!"

He lunged forward, but his blow did not get home.  A hand gripped him
by one shoulder and swung him round--crash!  He fell against a stable
door.  Happily there was a wall for Parker to lean against.  He was
open-mouthed--incredulous.

Phew!  Morelle who was ready to drop from terror at a threat, was
standing, hands on hips, surveying the bewildered fire-eater.

"I'm extremely sorry you made me do that," he said almost
apologetically, "but you really must not shout--especially about
unpleasant things.  If I--if I behaved disgracefully to the lady, I
am sorry."

All this in a voice that did not reach beyond his adversary.  Parker
heard the low music of it and scratched his head.  Morelle's voice
had changed.

Later, when Ronnie was preparing to depart, Parker ventured to offer
felicitations.

"I never saw a man go through it like that fellow did--and they think
something of him as a fighter in these parts."

"It was nothing," said Ronnie hastily, "a trick--I learned it in New
Caledonia from a Japanese who was in the same prison."

Parker blinked.

"Yes, sir," he said, and then Ronnie laughed.

"What on earth am I talking about?  I think we will go home, Parker."

"Yes, sir," said Parker, breathing hard.  He had never seen his
master drunk before, and drunk he undoubtedly was, for not only had
he fought, but he was civil.  Parker hoped he would keep drunk.

In his pocket Ronnie found a gold cigarette case, a pocketbook, a
watch and chain, a small billcase and a gold pencil.  In his trousers
pocket were a few silver coins and some keys.  He found them
literally; the seat of the car was strewn with his discoveries.
Whose were they?  The cigarette case was inscribed: "To Ronnie from
Beryl."  Ronnie--Beryl?  Of course they were his own properties.  He
chuckled gleefully at his amusing lapse.

"No, I shan't want you again, Parker--how do I get into touch with
you if--?  Yes, of course, I 'phone you at the garage.  Good morning."

"Good morning."  Parker was too dazed to return the politeness.

Ronnie shook his head smilingly when the porter opened the gate of
the automatic elevator.  He would walk, he said, and went up the
stairs two at a time.  This exercise tired him slightly.  And usually
he felt so strong, nothing tired him.  That day he lifted Moropulos
and flung him on his bed.  Moropulos had hated him ever since.




II

"What am I thinking about?" said Ronnie Morelle aloud.

François was not in.  Ronnie had expected him to be there and yet
would have been surprised had he seen him.  There was a letter lying
on the table.  Ronnie saw it when he entered the room.  He did not
look at it again for some time.  Strolling aimlessly round the
library, hands in pockets, he stopped before the Anthony over the
mantelpiece--ugly and a little unpleasant.  He made a little grimace
of disgust.  Out of the tail of his eye he saw the letter.  Why did
people write to him, he wondered, troubled?  They knew that he
couldn't read, he made no secret of his ignorance.  Yet, picking up
the envelope, he read his own name and was unaware of his
inconsistency.  The letter was from François.  His brother had
arrived.  He had gone to the station to meet him and would return
instantly.  Would Monsieur excuse?  It was unlikely that monsieur
would return before him, but if he did, would he be pleased to
excuse.  He wrote "excuse" three times and in three different ways,
and they were all wrong.  Ronald laughed softly.  Poor François!
poor--

His face became grave and slowly his eyes went back to the Anthony,
that lewd painting.

Poor soul!  His eyes filled with tears.  They rolled with the curious
leisure of tears down his face, and dropped on the gray suede
waistcoat.

Poor soul!  Poor weak, undeveloped soul!

Ronnie was sitting on the Chesterfield to read the letter.  François,
coming in hurriedly, saw a man crying into the crook of his arm and
stood petrified.

"M'sieur!"

Ronnie looked up.  His eyes were swollen, his smooth skin blotchily
red in patches.

"Hello, François.  I'm being stupid.  Get me a glass of water,
please."

His hand was shaking so that he could hardly hold the glass to his
chattering teeth.

François watched and marvelled.

"Did you meet your brother?"  Ronnie was drying his eyes and smiling
faintly at the valet's grotesque dismay.

"Yes, M'sieur, I hope that m'sieur was not inconvenienced--"

Ronnie shook his head.

"No--make me something.  Coffee or tea--anything--have you brought
your brother here?"

"Oh, no, M'sieur."

"You will want to see him, François.  You may take the rest of the
day off."

"Certainly, M'sieur," said François, recovering himself.  His
services were seldom dispensed with until later in the day.  Possibly
his employer had excellent reason.

Ronnie did not hear the bell ring and until he caught the click of
the lock and the sound of voices in the lobby, he had no idea that he
had a caller.

François came in alone, secretive, low-voiced.

"It is Mister East, M'sieur: Yesterday was the day, but m'sieur
forgot," he said mysteriously.

"Yesterday was--what day?"  Ronnie rubbed his chin with a knuckle.
How stupid of him to forget!

"Ask him to come in please."

François hesitated, but went, returning with a thin young man whose
face seemed all angles and bosses.  He was well dressed, a little too
well dressed.  His plastered hair was parted and one fringe curled
like a wave of black ink that had been petrified just as it was in
the act of breaking on the yellow beach of his forehead.

He had a way of holding back his head so that he looked down his nose
in whatever direction his gaze was turned.

"Morning," he said coldly and cleared his throat.

"Good morning?"  Ronnie's tone was polite but inquisitive.

"I called yesterday but nobody was in," said Mr. East, gently stern.

"Why did you call at all?" asked Ronnie.

A look of amazement toning to righteous anger from Mr. East.

"Why did I call at all?" he repeated.  "To give you a chance of
actin' the man; to collect what is due to a poor girl that was--"

"To commit blackmail, in fact?" smiled Ronnie.  (He was quick to
smile today.)

"Eh?"

"I remember--I have given you money every week, ostensibly for your
sister.  Tell her to come and see me."

"What!  Her come to see you?  In this, what I might term, den of
iniquity?  No!  I don't allow you to see the poor girl.  And as for
blackmail, didn't you, of your own free will, offer to pay?"

Mr. East had grown red in the face, he was indignant, hurt, and soon
would be pugnacious.

Ronnie got to his feet and the listening François heard the door open.

"Get out, please," said Ronnie pleasantly.  "I don't wish to hurt
you--but get out."

The man was speechless.

"I am going to a lawyer," he blustered, "I won't soil my hands with
you."

"I think you are very wise," said Ronnie and closed the door on him.

On the mat outside, Mr. East stood for at least five minutes
thinking, or trying to think.

"He's been drinking!" he said hollowly, and, had he consulted Parker,
his suspicions would have received support.

François heard his employer's summons and came from his tiny
compartment.

"I am going out," said Ronnie.

"I will telephone for the car, M'sieur," but Ronnie shook his head.

"I will walk," he said.  "You need not wait, François.  Have I a key?"

"Yes, M'sieur," wonderingly, "it is on the chain of m'sieur."

Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket.

"Which is it--this?"

"Certainly, M'sieur."

"You need not wait," said Ronnie again.  "I do not know when I shall
be in."

"Good, M'sieur."

Well might François wonder, for Ronnie was speaking in French, the
French of a man who had lived with French people.  And Ronald
Morelle, though he had a knowledge of that language, never spoke it,
or if he did, his accent was bad and his vocabulary limited.

It was eight o'clock at night when Ronnie returned.  The flat was in
darkness and was chilly.  He turned on the lights before he closed
the door and had a difficulty in finding the switch.  It took him a
longer time to locate the controls of the electric stove in the
fireplace.  They were skilfully hidden.

In the kitchenette he lit a gas-ring and filling a copper kettle, set
the water to boil.

François, in his hurry to meet his brother that morning, had
forgotten to dust the black writing table.  Ronnie found a duster and
remedied his man's neglect.

By the time he had finished, the kettle was boiling.  The tea was in
a little wooden box; the sugar he found on another shelf--there was
no milk.  Ronnie put on his coat and with a jug in his hand, went out
to find a dairy.  The hall porter saw a man in a silk hat and
wasp-waisted overcoat passing his lodge, and came out hurriedly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Morelle.  Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I want some milk," said Ronnie simply, "but please don't trouble;
there is a dairy in the Brompton Road, I remember seeing the place."

"They will be closed now, sir," said the porter.  "If you give me the
jug, I'll get some for you."

He took the vessel and made a flat-to-flat canvass and was successful
in his quest.

When Ronnie opened the door to the porter, Ronnie was in his
shirt-sleeves and he had a broom in his hand.  He explained
pleasantly that he had upset a can of flour.  François occasionally
prepared an omelette for his master.

"If you'll let me sweep it up--" began the porter, but Ronnie
declined the offer.

With a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter he made a meal,
cleared away the remnants of the feast and washed and dried the
utensils.

Then he sat down to pass the evening.  The book-shelves were
bewilderingly interesting.  He took out a book.  Greek!  Of course,
he read Greek and this was the Memorabilia; its margins covered with
pencil notes in his own handwriting!

Presently he replaced the book and tried to reduce the events of the
day to some sort of order.  The execution!

What happened outside the execution shed?

He had looked into the eyes of the condemned man and suddenly the
placid current of his mind had been disturbed as by a mighty wind.
And standing there he had watched something being taken into the
death house; whose uncouth body was it that hung strapped and
strangled in the brick pit?  Ambrose Sault's?

He remembered a second of painful experience when he had a confused
memory of strange people and places, queer earthquake memories.  He
recollected having been flogged by a red-haired brute of a man who
wielded a strap; he recalled a dim-lit cell and the pale blue eyes of
a clergyman who was pleading with him; of a woman, dark-faced and
thick-lipped--his mother?--he remembered the past of Ambrose Sault!
He had been Ambrose Sault in those ten seconds, with all the
consciousness of Sault's life, all the passion of Sault's faith.  And
then the weighted traps had fallen with a thunderous clap and he was
Ronald Morelle again--only different.

Yet he was not wholly conscious of the difference.  What a strange
business it was!  How was humanity served by that ritual of death?
His heart melted within him as in a vivid flash he saw the blank
despair of the trussed victim of the law shuffling forward to
annihilation.  He was being weak--but, oh God, how sad, how
unutterably sad!  He sobbed into his hands and was pained at the
futility of his grief.  Poor soul!  Poor, mean, smirched soul!  How
vilely it had served the beautiful body which was its habitation!

He looked up frowning, his tear-stained face puckered in perplexity.
Beautiful body?  Ambrose Sault was gross, uncouth.  And by all
accounts a good man.  Even Steppe admired his principles.  Why should
principles be admired?  It was natural to be honest and clean.

He had left the door of the pantry ajar; the shrill sound of the bell
brought him to his feet.

He waited to wipe his face and the bell rang again impatiently.

"My friend, you must wait," said Ronnie.

A third time the bell rang before he opened the door.

Steppe filled the doorway, the expanse of his shirt-front showed like
a great white heart, against the gloom of his evening dress.

"Hello.  You're in, huh?  Long time answering the bell--I suppose
you've got somebody here."

He looked around.  The only light in the room was the shaded
table-lamp.  Ronnie had extinguished the others before he sat down.

"The wicked love the darkness, huh, huh!" Steppe chuckled, and then
looking past him, Ronnie saw that he was not alone.  Beryl waited at
the door and behind her was Dr. Merville.

"Get dressed and come out," commanded Steppe noisily.  "What's the
matter with all you people, huh?  Come along.  We're going to a
theatre.  You're as bad as Beryl, sitting in the dark.  You overbred
people think too much."

"May we come in, Ronnie?" asked Beryl.

It was very likely that Steppe's crude suggestion was justified.  She
had no illusions about Ronnie.

"Come in?  Of course you can come in," said Steppe scornfully.  "Now
hurry, Morelle.  We'll give you ten minutes--and put some lights on."

"There is enough light."

Ronnie's voice was calm and deep.  Steppe, turning to find the
switch, swung back again and peered at his face.

"What's that?" he asked sharply.  "I said there wasn't--what have you
done to your voice?  Here!"

He walked across the room and ran his hand down the three switches.

Ronnie screwed up his eyes to meet the painful brilliance.

He saw Beryl's look of surprise, met the stare of the big man.

"He's been crying!" bellowed Steppe in delight.  "Huh, huh!  Look at
him, Beryl, sniveling!"

"Mr. Steppe--Jan!  How can you!"

"How can I?  By God, he's been sniveling!  Look at his face, look at
his eyes!"  Steppe slapped his thigh in an ecstasy of joy.  "So it
got you, huh?  I couldn't understand how a fellow like you could see
it, without curling up!"

His coarseness, the malignity, the heartlessness of the man sickened
Beryl Merville.  But Ronnie--!  He was serene, unmoved by the other's
taunts, meeting his eyes steadily.

"It was dreadful--so dreadful, Steppe.  To see that poor shrieking
thing thrust forward, struggling--"

"What!" shouted Steppe, and the girl gasped.  "Ambrose
Sault--shrieking in fear--"

"You lie!" snarled Steppe.  "Sault wasn't that kind.  I've seen
Maxton and he says he was without fear.  You're dreaming, you fool.
If it had been you--yes.  You'd have squealed--by God!  You would
have raised Cain!  But Ambrose Sault--he was a man.  D'ye hear, a
man.  He's dead and I'm glad.  But he was a man."

He held himself in with an effort.

"Get dressed and come out," he ordered roughly.

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie," the girl had come to him, pity and sympathy
in her sad face.  "It was dreadful for you."

He nodded.  "Yes--it was dreadful.  I am not coming out tonight,
Beryl."

She squeezed his arm gently.  "Poor Ronnie!"

"Poor fiddlesticks!" sneered Steppe.  "Hurry, cry-baby.  I'm not
going to wait here all night.  What are you afraid of?  You shouldn't
have seen the damned thing, if you were going to snivel about it.
You should have 'Tried the luck'!"

He chuckled as at a joke as he saw the swollen eyes of his victim
wander to the bookshelf.

"The luck!" said Ronnie.  He was speaking to himself, as he moved to
the bookcase.

Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on the table.  He
seemed like a man walking in his sleep.  Mechanically he took up a
miniature sword from a pin tray and held it for a moment in his hand.

"Try the luck!" scoffed Steppe.  "Shall I go to the play, shan't I go
to the play--dear Lord!"

For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, watching, saw the
big man start.  Then the sword was thrust between the pages and the
book opened.

Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type--frowned.  Then he read
slowly, sonorously:


"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke;
yet neither shall thou mourn nor weep; neither shall thy tears fall
down."


The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.

A silence, painful and intense, so profound that Beryl's quick
breathings were audible.


"I will take away the desires of thine eyes with a stroke--"


"Don't read it again!" cried Steppe harshly.  "I'm going--listening
to this fool--come on, Beryl."

Turning at the door she saw him still standing at the table.  His
face was in shadow, his hands white and shapely, outspread upon the
leather-covered top; the open book between them.

"He's drunk," said Steppe and she made no reply.  Jan Steppe was very
preoccupied all that evening, but not so completely oblivious of
realities that he did not bargain with the doctor for certain shares
in the Klein River Mine.  Just before he had left his house Steppe
had received a code cable from Johannesburg.




III

On the morning of Ambrose Sault's execution, Evie found a letter
awaiting her at the drug store.  Whatever natural unhappiness of
feeling she may have had when she left her weeping mother, vanished
in the perusal of Ronnie's long epistle.  The envelope bore the St.
John's Wood postmark, but this she would not have regarded as
significant, even if she had noticed it, which she did not.

Not a love letter in the strictest sense; it was too precise and
businesslike for that.  It gave her certain dates to be cherished,
certain instructions to be observed.  It went to the length of naming
Parisian dressmakers where she might be expeditiously fitted.  She
was to bring nothing, only a suitcase with bare necessities.  A
week's stay in Paris would give her all the time she needed to equip
herself.  It was a trial to her that she would not see Ronnie for a
month, not until the great day--she caught her breath at the thought.
But he had stipulated this.  Ronnie was too keen a student of women
to give her the opportunity of changing her mind.  His letters could
not be argued with, or questioned.

And the month would quickly pass.  Teddy Williams was a faithful
attendant and, although he could not be compared in any respect with
Ronnie, it was pleasant and flattering to extend her patronage to one
who hung upon her words and regarded her as an authority upon most
subjects.

She had imparted her views on marriage to Teddy, and that young man
had been impressed without being convinced.

Ronnie's letter was to be read and re-read.  She expected another the
next day and, when it did not come, she was disappointed.  Yet he had
not promised to write; in his letter he had said: "Until you are my
very own, I shall live the life of an anchorite."

She looked up "anchorite" and found that it meant "one who retires
from society to a desert or solitary place to avoid the temptations
of the world and to devote himself to religious exercises," and
accepted this as a satisfactory explanation, though she couldn't
imagine Ronnie engaging himself in religious exercises.

Life ran normally at home, now that Mr. Sault was dead.  Evie had
felt very keenly the disgrace of having a lodger who was a murderer.
Only the fact that Ronnie knew him, too, and to some extent shared in
the general odium, prevented her from enlarging upon the scandal to
her mother and Christina.  Beyond her comprehension was her sister's
remarkable cheerfulness.  Christina didn't seem to care whether Mr.
Sault was alive or dead.  She was her own caustic self and the shadow
of her proper woe failed to soften or sadden her.

A week of her waiting had passed before Christina even mentioned the
name of Ambrose Sault, and then it was in connection with the
disposal of his room.  Apparently he had paid his rent for a long
period in advance, and Mrs. Colebrook refused to let the room again
until the tenancy had expired.

"Mother is being sentimental over Ambrose and his room," said
Christina, "but there is no reason why you shouldn't have the room,
Evie.  You've been aching for privacy as long as I can remember."

Evie shuddered.

"I couldn't sleep there, I'd be afraid he'd haunt me."

"I should be afraid he wouldn't," said Christina, with a little
smile.  "If you don't like the idea, I will have my bed put in there."

"No, no, please don't, Christina," begged the girl urgently, "I--I
prefer to sleep here if you don't mind.  I want to be with you as
much as I can and I'm out all day."

"And home much earlier.  Is it Ronnie or Teddy?"

"I'm seeing a lot of Teddy," replied Evie primly, "he is quite a nice
boy."

"And Ronnie?"

"Leave Ronnie alone," Evie turned a good-humored smile to her.  "He
is too busy to meet me so often."

"Loud cheers," said the ironical Christina.  "Evie--why don't you ask
him to call here?  I should enjoy a chat with him."

"Here?"  Evie was incredulous.  "How absurd!  Ronnie wouldn't dream
of coming here."

Christina laughed.

"I won't tease you any more, Evie.  Does he ever say anything about
Ambrose?  He was in the prison when Ambrose was executed."

Evie writhed.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about it, Christina--in such a cold-blooded
way--ugh!"

"Does he?"

"I haven't seen him since that--that awful day," she said, "and I'm
sure he wouldn't talk about it."  Evie hesitated.  "Do you think much
about Mr. Sault, Chris?"

Christina put down her knitting in her lap and nodded.

"All the time," she said, "he isn't out of my thoughts for a second.
Not his face, I mean, or his awkward-looking body, but the real.  Do
you remember, Evie, how embarrassed I used to make him sometimes, and
how he'd rub his chin with the back of his hand?  I always knew when
Ambrose was troubled.  And how he used to sit on my bed and listen so
seriously to all my wails and whines?"

Evie looked for some evidence of emotion, but Christina's eyes were
dry--she appeared to be happy.

"Yes--Chris, do you think I ought to take these stockings back to the
store?  They laddered the first time I put them on and I paid a
terrible price for them."

Christina took the stockings from the girl and there all talk of
Ambrose Sault came to an end.

A few afternoons later, returning from her early walk, she was met at
the door by her agitated mother.

"There's a gentleman called to see you, Christina, he's in the
kitchen."

"A gentleman?"

"A gentleman" might mean anything by Mrs. Colebrook's elastic
description.

"He's a friend of Miss Merville's named Mr. Morelle."

"What?"  Christina could hardly believe her ears.  Ronnie Morelle?
Had Evie conveyed her joking request to him?  Even if she had, it was
not likely he would call for the pleasure of seeing her.

Mrs. Colebrook hustled her into the kitchen and closed the door on
them.  She had all the respect of her class for the sanctity of
private conversation.

Ronnie was sitting in the chair where Ambrose had so often sat, as
Mrs. Colebrook reminded her at least three times a day.  He rose as
she entered and stood surveying her.

It was the first time she had seen him close at hand, and her first
impression was one of admiration.  She had never met so good-looking
a man and instantly she absolved Evie for her infatuation.  He did
not offer his hand at first, and it was not until she was about to
speak that it came out to her shyly.  It was a strong hand and the
warmth of the grip surprised her.

"Christina!" he said softly and she felt herself go red.

"That is my name.  You are Ronnie Morelle?  I have heard a great deal
about you from Evie."

"From Evie?--yes, why of course!  Your mother is looking well.  She
works very hard--too hard I think.  Women ought not to do such heavy
work."

She sat, tongue-tied, could only point to the chair from which he had
risen.

"I had to come to see you--but I have been rather occupied and
selfish.  I have been reading a great deal--a sheer delight.  You
will understand that?  And poor François has had a lot of trouble,
his brother developed appendicitis.  We have had an anxious time."

Ronnie Morelle!  And he was talking gravely of the anxious time he
had had because the brother of his servant--it was incredible.

She never dreamed that he was this kind of man; all her preconceived
ideas and more than half of her prejudice against him, were swept
away in a second.  He was sincere; she knew it.  Absolutely sincere.
This was no pose of his.

"You haven't seen Evie--oh, yes, you have!  She told you I wanted to
see you, Mr. Morelle.  I do, although I was only joking when I
suggested your coming.  Are you very fond of Evie?"

"Yes, she is a nice child.  A little thoughtless and perhaps a little
selfish.  Young girls are that way, especially if they are pretty.  I
am fond of young people, all young things have an appeal for me.
Kittens, puppies, chicks--I can watch them for hours."

This was Ronnie Morelle.  She had to tell herself all the time.  He
was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described as "foul" and Ambrose
was so charitable in his judgments; the man who had taken Beryl
Merville.

"I am glad you spoke of Evie," he went on.  "She must not be hurt.
At her age men make a profound impression and color the whole of
after-life.  It is so easy to sour the young.  It is hard to improve
on the old texts," he smiled.  "I wonder why I try.  'As the twig is
bent, so is the tree inclined.'  I never think that it is wise to
reason with a girl in love--fascinated is a better word.  _Aegrescit
mendeno_!  The disease thrives on remedies.  I don't know where I
picked up that phrase--it is Latin, isn't it?"

He went red again, was painfully embarrassed.

She fell back against the wall, white as death.  Only by an effort of
will did she arrest the scream that arose in her throat.

In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle!

"Oh, my God!" cried Christina, wide-eyed.  Springing up she took both
his hands and looked into his face.

"Don't you _know_!" she breathed.

A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie Morelle.

"I know it is very good to see you, Christina," he said.

"Don't you--know?  Look at me--Ronnie!"

Then as suddenly she released his hands and held on to the table.

"Get me some water, please."

She watched him as he went unerringly into the scullery.  There were
two taps, one connected with a rain-water cistern that her father had
made; the other was the drinking water.

He turned the right tap, found a glass where it was invariably hidden
on a shelf behind a cretonne curtain, and brought it back to her.

She drank greedily.

"Sit down--Ronnie.  I want you to tell me something.  You went to the
execution--I know it hurts you, my dear, but you must tell me.  How
did he die?"

She waited, holding her breath.

"It was--terrible," he said in a low voice, "he was so afraid!"

"Afraid!" she whispered.

"I don't remember much.  Every thought seemed to have gone out of my
mind.  Afterwards I was so numbed--why, I didn't even recognize my
own car or know that I had a car."

"Did you touch him--look at him, then, did you, Ronnie?"

Ronald Morelle answered with a gesture.

"Did you--?"

"I looked at him, but only for a second.  He was reciting a poem.
Henley's.  I was reading it today, trying to recall things.  That was
all, I just looked into his eyes and I was feeling hateful toward
him, Christina.  And that was all.  He began to moan and cry out.  I
was terribly distressed."

She said no more.  She wanted to be alone with her mad thoughts.
When he rose to go, she was glad.

"I'll come again on Wednesday," he said, but corrected his promise.
"No, Wednesday is wash-day.  Your mother will not want me here."

"How do you know, Ronnie, that it is mother's wash-day?"  She was
addressing him as if he were a child from whom information must be
coaxed.

"I don't know.  Evie may have told me--of course it is Wednesday,
Christina!"

She nodded.

"Yes, it is Wednesday."

Mrs. Colebrook, consonant with her principles, had effaced herself so
effectively that Christina had to seek her in her hiding-place.  She
was sitting in Sault's room and sniffed suspiciously when the girl
called her.

"Mother, you have often told me about something Ambrose did when you
were very ill.  Will you tell me again?"

Mrs. Colebrook was happy to tell, embellishing the story with
footnotes and interpolations descriptive of her own impressions on
that occasion.

"Thank you, Mother."

"What did he want?  I didn't like to come down whilst he was
here--not in this old skirt.  Did he know poor Mr. Sault?  A
la-did-da sort of fellow, but very polite.  He quite flustered me, he
was so friendly."

She relieved the girl from the necessity for replying by supplying
her own answers.

At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Colebrook heard the snick of a key as
Christina locked the door of her room.  Mrs. Colebrook sighed.
Christina was getting more and more unsociable.




IV

Did Beryl know--should she know?  Suppose she went to her and told
her the crazy theory she had?  Beryl would doubt her sanity.  No, no
good would come of precipitancy.  She must be sure, thought
Christina, lying on her bed, her hand at her mouth as though she
feared that she might involuntarily cry her news aloud.

No particulars of Ambrose Sault's death had appeared in the press.
The longest notice was one which, after a brief reference to the
execution, went on to give details concerning the crime.  Practically
the references to the execution were similar:


"Ambrose Sault was executed at Wechester Jail yesterday morning for
the murder of Paul Moropulos.  The condemned man walked with a firm
step to the gallows and death was instantaneous.  He made no
statement.  Billet was the executioner."


The hangman always received his puff.  When she had been staying with
Beryl, she had met Sir John Maxton; he had returned on the morning of
the execution and had come straight to the house.  He had said
nothing that gave her any impression except that Ambrose had died
bravely.  Would he have heard anything later?  She made up her mind,
dressed and went out.  There was a telephone a block away and she got
through to Sir John's chambers in the Temple.  To her relief he
answered the telephone himself.

"Is that you, Sir John?  It is Christina Colebrook--yes--I'm very
well.  Can I see you, Sir John?  Any time, now if you wish.  I could
be with you in twenty minutes--oh, thank you--thank you so much."

A bus dropped her in Fleet Street and she walked through the Temple
grounds to the ugly and dreary buildings where he rented chambers.
They were on the ground floor, happily; Christina was still a
semi-invalid.

"You've come to ask me about Sault!" he said as soon as she was
announced.

"Why do you think that?" she smiled.

"I guessed.  I suppose Ronnie has told everybody about the ghastly
business.  It seems impossible, impossible that he could have shown
the white feather as he did," said Sir John.  "I can hardly believe
it is true, and yet when I got into touch with the deputy governor,
he told me very much the same story--that one moment Sault was calm
and literally smiling at death; the very next instant he
was--pitiful, blubbering like a child.  I hate telling you this,
because I know you were such dear friends, but--you want to know?"

She inclined her head.

"Nothing else happened?"

"Nothing--oh, yes, there was one curious circumstance.  In the midst
of his amazing outburst Sault cried: 'Ronald Morelle of Balliol!'
Did he know that Ronnie was at Balliol?  I can only imagine that by
this time he hadn't any idea at all what he was talking about."

She rose.

"Thank you, Sir John," she said quietly, "you have saved my reason."

"In what way?" His curiosity was piqued.

"There was something I had to believe--or go mad.  That is cryptic,
isn't it?  But I can't be plain, for fear you think I've lost my
reason already!"

Sir John was too polite to press her, too much of a lawyer to reveal
his curiosity.  He went on to talk of Sault.

"He was certainly the best man I have met in my life.  By 'best' I
particularly refer to his moral character, his ideals, his sense of
divinity.  His courage humbled me, his philosophy left me feeling
like a child of six.  I must believe what I am told, so I accept the
story about his having made a scene on the scaffold, without
question.  But there is an explanation for it, that I'll swear, and
an explanation creditable to Ambrose Sault."

Christina went home with a light heart, convinced.

She had begun a letter to Beryl and was debating half-way through
whether she would as much as hint her peculiar theory, when Evie
burst into the room cyclonically, her eyes blazing.

"He's been here!  Mother said so--you were talking to him for a long
time!  Oh, Chris, what did he say--wasn't it wonderful of him to
come?  Don't you think he is handsome, Chris?  Own up--isn't he a
gorgeous man?  Did he ask after me, was he very disappointed when he
found I was out--?"

"I'll take your questions in order," said Christina, solemnly ticking
them off on her finger.  "He has been here, if he is Ronnie; he said
a lot of things.  It was certainly wonderful for me that he came.  He
asked after you, but didn't seem to be cast down to find you were
out.  Was that the lot?  I hope so."

"But Christina!" she was quivering with excitement.  "What do you
think of him?"

"I--think--he--is--sublime!"

Evie glanced at her resentfully, suspecting sarcasm; saw that her
sister was in earnest, and seeing this, was confounded.

"He is very nice," she said less enthusiastic, "yes--a dear--did you
really get on with him, Chris?  How queer!  And after all that you've
said about him!  Didn't your conscience prick you--?"

Christina sent her red locks flying in a vigorous head-shake.

"No, it wasn't conscience," she said.

Evie, from being boisterously interested, became quietly distrait.

"Of one thing I am certain," volunteered Christina, "and it is that
he will never behave dishonorably or give you, or for the matter of
that, mother and me, one hour's real pain."

"No--I'm sure he won't," said Evie awkwardly, the more awkward,
because she was trying so hard not to be.

"Such a man couldn't be mean.  I am certain of that," Christina went
on.  "Evie, I am not scared about you any more--and I was, you know.
Just scared!  Sometimes when you came back from seeing Ronnie, I
dared not look at you for fear--I didn't exactly know what I feared.
Now--well, I feel that you are in good hands, darling, and I shall
not be thinking every time you go out: 'I wonder if she will come
back again?'"

Evie's face was burning.  If she had spoken, she would have betrayed
herself.  She became interested in the contents of a hanging cupboard
and hummed a careless tune, shakily.

"Are you singing or is it the hinge?" asked Christina.

"You're very rude--I was singing--humming."

"There must be music in the family somewhere," said Christina,
"probably it goes back to our lordly ancestor--"

"I told Teddy about that, about Lord Fransham--"

"Did you tell Ronnie?"

Evie wondered if she should say.  Christina was so excellently
disposed toward him that it would be a pity to excite her resentment.

"Yes--he laughed.  He said everybody has a lord in his family if he
only goes back far enough.  Teddy thought it was wonderful and he
said--you'll laugh?"

"I swear I won't."

"Well--he said that he knew that I had aristocratic blood by my
instep, it is so arched.  And it is you know, Chris, just look!"

"Shurrup!" said Christina vulgarly.

"Well--he did.  Teddy isn't half the fool you think him.  I don't
exactly mean you, Chris, but people.  His father has a tremendous
farm, miles and miles of it.  He sent Teddy over here for six months.
What do you think for?"

Christina couldn't think.

"To find a wife!" said Evie.  "Isn't it quaint?  And do you know that
Teddy is staying at the Carlton-Grand.  I thought he was living with
his aunt in Tenton Street and I only discovered by accident that he
was staying at a swagger hotel.  He said he would write and tell his
father about our lord."

She sighed heavily.

"I like Teddy awfully.  He is so grateful for--well, for anything I
can do for him, such as putting his tie straight and telling him
about things."

"Why don't you marry Teddy?"

A few weeks ago Evie would have snorted scornfully.  Now she was
silent for a long time.  She sighed again.

"That is impossible.  I'm too fond of Ronnie and I believe in
keeping--in keeping my word.  Teddy's father is building a beautiful
little house for him.  And Teddy says that he has a quiet horse that
a girl could ride.  He believes in riding astride, so do I.  I've
never ridden, but that is the way I _should_ ride--through the corn
for miles and miles.  You can see the mountains from Teddy's farm.
They are covered with snow, even in the summer.  There is a place
called Banff where you can have a perfectly jolly time, dances and
all that.  In the winter, when it is freezingly cold, Teddy goes to
Vancouver, where it is quite warm.  He has an orange-farm somewhere."

For the third time she sighed.  Christina in her wisdom, made no
comment.




V

Evie usually had her breakfast alone.  Christina was late and Mrs.
Colebrook breakfasted before her family came down and was, moreover,
so completely occupied in supplying the needs of her youngest
daughter, that it would have been impossible to settle herself down
to a meal.

Evie was generally down by a quarter to eight; the post came at eight
o'clock.  Until recently Evie had no interest in the movements of
that official.  Very few letters came to the house in any
circumstances and of these Evie's share was negligible.

Teddy brought a new interest to the morning for he was a faithful
correspondent, and the girl would have known long before, that he was
an inmate of a superior caravanserie, had not the youth, in his
modesty, written on the plainest of notepaper.  Not then, nor at any
other time, did the mail have any thrill for Mrs. Colebrook.  She had
a well-to-do sister living in the north who wrote to her regularly
every six months.  These letters might have been published as a
supplement to the Nomenclature of Diseases, for they constituted a
record of the obscure ailments which inflicted the writer's family.
She had a sister-in-law living within a mile of her, whom she seldom
saw and never heard from.  Whatever letters came to the house were
either for Christina or Evie, generally for Christina.

Ambrose Sault had once presented Christina with five hundred postal
cards.  It was one of the freakish things that Ambrose did, but
behind it, there was a solid reason.  Christina enjoyed a constant
supply of old magazines and out-of-date periodicals.  Evie collected
them for her from her friends.  And in these publications were
alluring advertisements, the majority of which begged the reader,
italically, to send for Illustrated Catalogue No. 74, or to write to
Desk H. for a beautiful handbook describing at greater length the
wonders of the articles advertised.  Sometimes samples were offered,
samples of baby's food, samples of fabric, samples of soap and patent
medicine, and other delectable products.

Christina had expressed a wish that she could write, and Ambrose had
supplied the means.  Thereafter Christina's letter-bag was a
considerable one.  She knew more about motor-cars, their advantages
over one another, their super-excellent speeds and economies, than
the average dealer.  If you asked her what car ran the longest
distance on a can of petrol, she would not only tell you, but would
specify which was the better of the gases supplied.  She knew the
relative nutritive qualities of every breakfast food on the market;
the longest-wearing boots and the cheapest furniture.

Evie had finished her meal when the postman knocked.

"A letter from Teddy and a sample for Christina, I suppose,"
speculated Mrs. Colebrook, hurrying to the door.  She invariably ran
to meet the postman having a confused idea that it was an offence,
punishable under the penal code, to keep him waiting.

There was no mail for Christina.

"Here's your letter."

Evie took the stout and expensive looking envelope, embossed redly
with the name of the hotel.

"Who's writing to me?" asked Mrs. Colebrook.  She turned the letter
over, examined the handwriting, critically deciphered the
post-mark--finally tore open the flap of the envelope.

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Colebrook.  She looked at the heading
again.  "Who is 'Johnson and Kennett'?" she asked.

"The house agents?  There is a firm of that name in Knightsbridge.
What is it, mother?"

Mrs. Colebrook read aloud.


"_Dear Madam_: We have been requested to approach you in regard to
work which we feel you would care to undertake.  A client of ours has
a small house on the continent, for which he is anxious to secure a
housekeeper.  Knowing, through Dr. Merville, that you have a daughter
who is recovering from an illness, he asks me to state that he would
be glad if your daughter accompanied you.  There is practically no
work, three servants, all of whom speak English, are kept, and our
client wishes us to state that the grounds are extensive and pretty,
and hopes that you will make the freest use of them, and the small
car which he will leave there.  He himself does not expect to occupy
the house, so that you will be practically free from any kind of
supervision."


The salary was named.  It was generous.

Mrs. Colebrook looked over her glasses at the wondering Evie.

"Mother!  How perfectly splendid!"

But Mrs. Colebrook was not so enthusiastic.  Change of any kind was
anathema.  She had acted as housekeeper in her younger days, so that
the work had no terrors for her, but--abroad!

Foreign countries meant peril.  Foreigners to her were sinister men
who carried knives, and were possessed of homicidal tendencies.  They
spoke a language expressly designed to conceal their evil intentions,
and they found their recreation in plotting in underground chambers.
There was a cinema at the end of Walter Street.

"There is something written on the other side," said Evie suddenly.

Mrs. Colebrook turned the sheet.


"The invitation extends to your younger daughter, if she would care
to accompany you."


"Well!" said Evie, and flew up the stairs to Christina's room.

"Christina!  What do you think!  Mother has had a letter from a house
agent offering--"

"Don't tell me!" Christina interrupted, "let me guess!  They've
offered her a beautiful house in the country rent free--no?  Then
they've offered--let me think--a house in a nice warm climate where I
can bask in the sunshine and watch the butterflies flirting with the
roses!"

Evie's jaw dropped.

"Whatever made you think--?"

Christina snatched the letter and read, her eyes bright with
excitement.

"Oh, golly!" she said and laughed so long that Evie grew alarmed.

"No, I'm not mad, and I'm not clairvoyant.  Mother, what do you think
of it?"

Mrs. Colebrook had followed her daughter upstairs.

"I don't know what to think," she said.  She was one of those people
who welcome an opportunity to show their indecision.  Mrs. Colebrook
liked to be "persuaded", though she might make up her mind
irrevocably, it was necessary that argument round and about should be
offered, before she yielded her tentative agreement.

Nobody knew this better than Christina.  She drew a long sigh of
relief, recognising the signs.

"We'll talk it over after Evie has gone to her pill-shop," she said,
and for once Evie did not contest a description of her place of
business, which usually provoked her to retort.

"I only want to say, mother, that you need not worry about me.  I can
get lodgings at one of the girl's hostels.  I don't think I want to
go abroad.  In fact, I know that I don't.  But it would be fine for
Christina.  It is my dream come true.  I've always had that plan for
her--a place where she could sit in the sunshine and watch the
flowers grow."

Christina's smile was all loving-kindness; she took the girl's
fingers in her hand and pinched them softly.

"Off to your workshop, woman," she ordered.  "Mother and I want to
talk about the sunny south."

"I'm not sure that I can take it," said Mrs. Colebrook dismally, "I
don't like the idea of living in a foreign place--"

"We'll discuss that," said Christina in her businesslike way.  "Did
those linoleum patterns come?"




VI

There was no letter for Evie when she arrived at the store.
Curiously enough she was not as disappointed as she expected to be.
There was a chance that Ronnie would have written after his visit to
the house, but when she found her desk bare, she accepted his neglect
with equanimity.

Her love for Ronnie was undiminished.  She faced, with a coolness
which was unnatural in her, the future he had sketched, and if at
times she felt a twinge of uneasiness, she put the less pleasant
aspect away from her.  It would not be honorable to go back on her
word, even if she wanted to do so.  And she did not.  As to the more
agreeable prospect she did not think about that either.  It was
easier to dismiss the whole thing from her mind.  She told herself
she was being philosophical.  In reality, she was solving her problem
by the simple process of forgetting it.

Leaving the store at midday to get her lunch, she saw Ronnie.  He was
driving past in his big Rolls and apparently he did not see her.  Why
was she glad--for glad she was?  That thought had to be puzzled out
in the afternoon, with disastrous consequences to her cash balance,
for when she made her return that night, she was short the price of a
hot-water bottle.

But Ronnie had seen her, long before she had seen him.  He was on his
way to lunch with a man he knew but toward whom he had for some
reason conceived a dislike.  It was rather strange, because Jerry
Talbot was the one acquaintance he possessed who might be called
"friend".  They had known one another at Oxford, they had for some
time hunted in pairs, they shared memories of a common shame.  Yet
when Jerry's excited voice had called him on the telephone that
morning and had begged him to meet his erstwhile partner at
Vivaldi's, Ronnie experienced a sense of nausea.  He would have
refused the invitation, but before he could frame the words, Jerry
had rung off.

Vivaldi's is a smart but not too smart restaurant, and had been a
favorite lunching place of Ronnie's.  It was all the more
unreasonable in him, that he should descend beneath the glass-roofed
portico with a feeling of revulsion.

Mr. Talbot had not arrived, said the beaming _maître de hotel_.  Yes,
he had booked a table.  Ronnie seated himself in the lounge and a
bellboy brought him an evening newspaper which he did not read.  Had
he done so, he would not have waited.

Half an hour passed and Ronnie was feeling hungry.  Another quarter
of an hour.

"I am going into the restaurant--when Mr. Talbot comes, tell him I
have begun my lunch."

He was shown to the table and chose a simple meal from the card.  At
any rate, Jerry's unpardonable rudeness gave him an excuse for
declining further invitations.

He had finished his lunch and had signalled for his bill when,
looking round, he recognized two men at one of the window tables.  He
would not have approached them, but Sir John Maxton beckoned.

Dr. Merville would gladly have dispensed with his presence, thought
Ronnie, and wondered if he had intruded into an important conference.

"Come and sit down, Ronnie.  Lunching alone?  That is rather unusual,
isn't it?"

"My friend disappointed me," said Ronnie and he saw the doctor's lip
curl.

"Did she--too bad," said Maxton.

"It was a 'he'," corrected Ronnie, and knew that neither man believed
him.

He noticed Sir John glancing at his companion.

"Ronnie, I wonder if you can help us.  Do you remember the flotation
of that Traction Company of Steppe's?"

"I don't think it is much good asking Ronnie," the doctor broke in
with a touch of impatience.  "Ronnie's memory is a little too
convenient."

"I remember the flotation--in a way," admitted Ronnie.

"Do you remember the meeting that was held at Steppe's house when he
produced the draft of the prospectus?"

Ronnie nodded.

"Before we go any farther, John," interrupted Merville, "I think it
will be fair to Ronnie, if we tell him that there is trouble over the
prospectus.  Some of the financial papers are accusing us of faking
the assets.  The question is, was I responsible, by including
properties which I should not have included, or did Steppe, in his
draft, give me the facts as I published them?  I don't think Ronnie
will remember quite so vividly if he knows that he may be running
counter to Steppe."

Ronnie did not answer.

"You see what I am driving at," Sir John went on.  "There may be bad
trouble if the Public Prosecutor takes these accusations
seriously--which, so far he hasn't.  We want to be prepared if he
does."

"I cannot remember very clearly," said Ronnie.  "I am not a member of
the Board.  But I do recall very clearly Steppe showing a draft and
not only showing it, but reading it."

"Do you remember whether in that draft he referred to the Woodside
Repairing Sheds; and if he did, whether he spoke of those as being
the absolute property or leased property of the company?"

"The absolute property," said Ronnie.  "I remember distinctly because
the Woodside Repairing Shops are on the edge of a little estate which
my father left me--you remember, John?  And naturally I was
interested."

Merville was dumbfounded.  Never in his most sanguine moments did he
suppose that Ronnie would assist him in this respect.  Ronnie, who
shivered at a word from Steppe, whose sycophantic servant he had been!

"This may come to a fight," said Sir John, "and that would mean
putting you in the box to testify against Steppe.  Have you
quarrelled with him?"

"Good gracious, no!" said Ronnie in surprise.  "Why should I quarrel
with him?  He doesn't worry me.  In a way he is amusing, in another
way pathetic.  I feel sometimes sorry for him.  A man with such
attainments, such powers and yet so paltry!  I often wonder why he
prefers the mean way to the big way.  He uses his power outrageously,
his strength brutally.  Perhaps he didn't start right--got all his
proportions wrong.  I was working it out last night--the beginnings
of Steppe--and concluded that he must have had an unhappy childhood.
If a child is treated meanly, and is the victim of mean tyrannies, he
grows up to regard the triumph of meanness as the supreme end in
life.  His whole outlook is colored that way, and methods which we
normal people look upon as despicable are perfectly legitimate in his
eyes."

"Good God!" said Sir John aghast.  It was the man, not the arguments
which startled him.

"Children ought not to be left to the chance training which their
parents give them," Ronnie went on, full of his subject, "but here, I
admit, I am postulating a condition of society which will never be
realized.  Some day I will start my Mother College.  It is a queer
sounding title," he said apologetically, "but you will understand I
want a great institution where we can take the illegitimate children
of the country, the unwanted children.  They go to baby farmers and
beasts of that kind now.  I want a college of babies where we will
teach them and train them from their babyhood up to think and feel
goodly, not piously.  That doesn't matter.  But bigly and generously.
To have high ideals and broad visions; to--"

He stopped and blushed, conscious of their interest and stupefaction;
squirmed unhappily in his chair, and rubbed his chin nervously with
the knuckles of his hand.

Sir John Maxton leaned back in his chair, his face twitching.

A waiter was passing.

"Bring me a brandy," he said hoarsely, "a double brandy."

Christina had only wanted water.




VII

"What flabbergasts me is Ronnie's willingness to go against Steppe,"
said the doctor, just before he dropped Sir John at his chambers.

He had done most of the talking since they left Vivaldi's and Maxton
had been content that he should.

"I can only suppose that Ronnie has had a row with Jan."

"Tell me this, Merville," said Sir John, leaning his arms on the edge
of the door and speaking into the car, "if you believe that Steppe is
the rascal I pretty well know him to be, why are you allowing Beryl
to marry him?"

An awkward question for the doctor.

"Oh, well--one isn't sure.  I may be in error after all.  Steppe is
quite a good fellow."

"Do you owe him money?" asked Maxton quietly.

Close friendship has its privileges.

"A little--nothing to speak of.  You don't think I would sacrifice
Beryl--?"

"I don't know, Bertram--I don't know.  Why ever you took up with that
crowd is beyond me."

"By the way," said the doctor, anxious to switch to another subject,
"that isn't an original idea of Ronnie's--the Mother College, or
whatever he calls it.  Poor Ambrose Sault had exactly the same dream.
I never heard the details from him, but he has mentioned it.  Funny
that Ronnie is taking it up?"

"Yes," Sir John waved his hand and went into the building.

He rang for his clerk.

"Do you remember a young lady coming to see me a few days ago?  A
Miss Colebrook--have we any record of her address?"

"No, Sir John."

"H'm--put me through to Dr. Merville's house in Park Place--I want to
speak to Miss Merville."

A minute later:

"Yes--John Maxton speaking, is that you, Beryl?  I want to know Miss
Colebrook's address--thank you," he scribbled on his blotting pad.
"Thank you--no, my dear, only I may have to get in touch with her."

He remembered after he had hung up the telephone, that Ambrose Sault
had propounded a will in which the address had appeared, but the will
was in the hands of Sir John's own lawyers.  Ambrose had left very
little, so little that it was hardly worth while taking probate.  But
the recollection of the will gave him the excuse he wanted.


"Sir John rang me up, father, he asked for Christina's address.  Do
you know why?"

"No, dear.  I wonder he didn't ask me.  I have been lunching with
him--and Ronnie.  Rather, Ronnie joined us after lunch was
through--he was loquacious and strange.  H'm--"

"How strange?"

"Beryl, did you notice the other night--I agree with you, Steppe was
brutal--how deep his voice had grown?  Boys' voices change that way
when they reach an age, but Ronnie isn't a boy.  Changed--and his
views on affairs.  He held John spellbound whilst he delivered
himself volubly on illegitimate children and the future of the race.
And the curious thing is that Ronnie hates children.  Loathes them;
he makes no secret of that.  Says that they are irresponsible animals
that should be kept on the leash."

"He said that today?"

"No--oh, a long time ago.  Now he wants a big institution where they
can be trained--maybe it is a variation of his leash and cage theory.
How did you get on?"

Steppe had been to lunch and was in the hall about to take his
departure when Sir John rang.

"He came," she said indifferently, "it was a--pleasant lunch.  I
think he enjoyed it.  I had mealies for him and he wrestled with them
happily."

"Did you discuss anything?"

"The happy day?" she said ironically.  "Yes, next Tuesday.  Quietly.
We go to Paris the same night.  He wants the honeymoon to be spent in
the Bavarian Alps, and he is sending his car on to Paris.  I think
that is all the news."

Her indifference bothered him.

"Steppe, I am sure, is a man who improves on acquaintance," he said
encouragingly.

"I am sure he does," she agreed politely, "will you tell Ronnie, or
shall I write to him?"

"I will tell Ronnie," said the doctor hastily.  "I don't think I
should encourage a correspondence with him, if I were you, Beryl.
Jan doesn't like it.  He was furious about you insisting upon Ronnie
coming out with us the other night."

"Very well," said Beryl.

"I think--I only think, you understand, that Steppe is under the
impression that you were once very fond of Ronnie, or that you had an
affair with him.  He is a very jealous man.  You must remember that,
Beryl."

"It almost seems that I am going to be happily married," she said
with a queer smile.

She did not write to Ronnie.  There was nothing to be gained by
encouraging a correspondence--she agreed entirely with her father on
that point.  Steppe she dismissed from her thoughts just as quickly
as she could.

Why had Sir John asked for Christina's address?  There was no reason
why he should not.  Perhaps Ambrose left a message--but that would
have been delivered long ago.  And--if Ambrose had left any message,
it would be to her.  The will perhaps.  The doctor had told them both
that Ambrose had left his few possessions to Christina.  She was glad
of that.  Yes, it must be the will.

This served at any rate to explain Sir John's call.

The appearance of a title at her front door, caused Mrs. Colebrook
considerable qualms.  It was her fate never to be wearing a skirt
appropriate to the social standing of distinguished visitors.

Christina was lying down.  She had had an interview with the
osteopath in the morning and he had insisted upon twenty-four hours
of bed.

"Show him up, mother.  He won't faint at the sight of a girl in
bed--lawyers have a special training in that sort of thing."

"He doesn't look like a lawyer," demurred Mrs. Colebrook, "he's a
sir."

She conducted the counsel upstairs with many warnings as to the
lowness of roof and trickiness of tread.  Mrs. Colebrook was resigned
to the character and number of Christina's visitors and, in that
spirit of resignation, left them.

"We have met," said Sir John and looked around for a chair.

"Sit on the bed, Sir John," she laughed, "Evie broke the leg of the
chair last night."

He obeyed her, looking at her quizzically.

"I saw Ronald Morelle at lunch today," he said, "I thought it best to
see you--first.  And let me get the will off my mind.  It has been
proved and there is a hundred or so to come to you.  Ambrose was not
well off, his salary in fact was ridiculously small.  That, however,
is by the way.  I saw Ronnie."

She returned his steady searching gaze.

"Did you talk to Ronnie?"

"I talked to Ronnie," he nodded, "and Ronnie talked to me.  Have you
ever seen a man who had the odd habit of rubbing his chin with the
back of his hand?  I see that you have.  Ronnie for example?  Yes, I
thought you would have noticed it."

"How did you know that he had been to see me?"

His thin hard face softened in a smile.

"Who else would he have come to see?"

"Beryl," she answered promptly and he looked surprised.

"Beryl?  I know nothing of how he felt in that quarter.  Beryl!  How
remarkable!  I knew he would come here; if you had told me that you
had not seen him, I should hare thought I was--"

She nodded.

"That is how I felt, Sir John.  I had to shake myself hard.  It was
like the kind of dream one has where you see somebody you know with
somebody else's face.  Yes, he came here.  I had to have a glass of
water."

"_I_ had brandy," said Sir John gravely.  "As a rule I avoid
stimulants--brandy produces a distressing palpitation of heart.
Perhaps water would have been better for me.  That is all, I think,
Miss Christina," he picked up his hat.  "I had to see you."

"Do you think anybody knows or ought to know?" she asked.

It was the question that had disturbed her.

"They must find out.  I have a reputation for being a hard-headed
Scotsman.  Why the heads of Scotsmen should be harder than any other
kinds of heads I do not know.  What I mean is, that I cannot risk my
credit as a man of truth or my judgment as a man of law or my status
as one capable of conducting his own affairs without the assistance
of a Commissioner in Lunacy--people must find out.  I think they
will, the interested people.  Beryl you say?  Was he--fond of her?
How astounding!  She is to be married very soon, you know that?"

"Should she be told--she may not have an opportunity of discovering
for herself, Sir John?"

"What can you tell her?" he asked bluntly.

She was silent.  She had been asking herself that.

Having ushered the visitor from the premises, Mrs. Colebrook joined
her daughter, for immediately following Sir John had come a grimy
little boy with a grimy little package.  Mrs. Colebrook had spent an
ecstatic five minutes in her kitchen revelling in the fruits of
authorship.

"I've got something to show you, Christina," she held the something
coyly under her apron.  "It was my own idea--I didn't expect them so
soon--came just after I'd left you and Sir What's-his-name."

"What is it, mother?"

Mrs. Colebrook drew from its place of concealment a double-leafed
card.  It was edged with black and heavy black Gothic type was its
most conspicuous feature Christina read:

  In loving memory of Ambrose Sault,
  Who departed this life on March 17, 19--
  at the age of fifty-three
  Mourned by all who knew him

  "_We ne'er shall see his gentle smile,
  Or hear his voice again,
  Yet in a very little while,
  We'll meet him once again._"


Christina put down the card.

"I made that up myself," said Mrs. Colebrook proudly, "all except the
poetry, which I copied from poor Aunt Elizabeth's funeral card.  I
think that verse is beautiful."

"I think it is prophetic," said Christina, and added inconsequently,
as Mrs. Colebrook thought, "I wonder if Ronnie is coming today?"




VIII

Ronnie had some such idea when he parted from Maxton and the doctor.
He went home to collect the bundle of books he had packed ready to
take to Christina, and there discovered the reason why his
absent-minded host had forgotten to put in an appearance.

Mr. Jerry Talbot was stretched exhaustedly in a lounge chair.  He was
a sallow young man with a large nose and a microscopic moustache.  He
had bushy eyebrows, arched enquiringly.  Only one eyebrow was now
visible, the other and the greater part of his slick head was hidden
under black silk bandages.  Looking at him, Ronnie wondered what he
had ever seen in the man.

"Lo, Ronnie," he greeted the other feebly, "I tried to 'phone you but
you were gone.  I had a sort of faint after I spoke to you this
morning, that's why I didn't turn up; so sorry.  But look at me, old
boy, look at me!"

"How did this happen?" asked Ronnie.

"Lola!"

Ronnie frowned.  Lola?  Who--?  Yes, yes, Lola.  He remembered.

"We had rather a hot time at my house last night, and Madame sent
some of the girls along.  Lola got tight and after some argument
about a brooch that one of my guests had lost, Lola picked up a
champagne bottle and--there you are!"

"Where is she?"

"In quod," said Mr. Jerry Talbot viciously.  "I gave her in charge,
and, Ronnie, she had the brooch!  They found it at the police
station.  So I was right when I called her a thieving
little--whatever it was I called her.  It is an awkward business for
me, old thing, but of course I'm swearing blue-blind that I never
invited her and that she came in without--sort of drifted in from the
street.  Madame put me up to that.  She's fed up with Lola and so are
the other girls."

"Just wait a moment," said Ronnie frowning, "do I understand that
Madame is going to disown this girl, this, what is her name--?"

"Lola," scoffed Mr. Talbot, "good heavens, you're not pretending that
you don't know her!  And you took her to Wechester with you--"

"Yes, of course I did," agreed Ronnie.  "It is rather terrible
work--straightening out the ravel of life--yes, I know her."

"Madame is disowning her, and so are the other girls.  Between
ourselves, Ritti has cleared out everything of Lola's and sent her
trunks to a baggage office.  None of her maids will talk, and
naturally, none of the people who go to Ritti's.  Lola has had a tip
to shut up about Madame's, and if she is wise, she'll admit she's a
street girl who had the cheek to walk into the party.  I had to tell
you, Ronnie, in case this infernal girl mentions you.  She is being
brought before the magistrate this afternoon."

And so came Lola from the dingy cells with her evening finery looking
somewhat bedraggled, and standing in the pen, pale and defiant, heard
the charge of assault preferred against her.

"Have you any witnesses to call?"

"None.  All my witnesses have been standing on the box committing
perjury," sobbed the girl, broken at last.

"I was invited.  Mr. Talbot sent for me--he sent to Madame Ritti's--"

"Madame Ritti says that she hardly knows you.  That with the
exception of a few days last year, when you were staying with her,
you have never been to the house," said the patient magistrate.  "She
made you leave her, because she found you were an undesirable."

"Your worship, there is a gentleman here who wishes to give
evidence," said the usher.

Ronald Morelle stepped to the stand, smiled faintly at the
open-mouthed surprise of Jerry Talbot, at the shocked amazement of
Madame Ritti, and bowed to the magistrate.

He gave his name, place of living, and occupation.

"Now, Mr. Morelle, what can you tell us?" demanded the magistrate
benevolently.

"I know this girl," he indicated the interested prisoner, "her name
is Lola Pranceaux, or rather, that is the name by which she is known.
She is an inmate of a house," he did not say "house," and Madame
Ritti almost jumped from her seat at his description, "maintained by
Madame Ritti.  I can also assure your worship that she is very well
known to the prosecutor, Mr. Talbot, and to me.  I have taken her
away to the country on more than one occasion.  To my knowledge she
was invited last night to Mr. Talbot's house.  There is no reason why
she should steal a trumpery brooch.  She has jewels of her own.  I
myself gave her the solitaire ring she is now wearing."

The magistrate glared at Jerry Talbot.

"Are you pressing this charge?"

"No--no, your honor--worship," stammered Jerry.

The man of law wrote furiously upon a paper.

"You may go away, Pranceaux, you are discharged.  I have heard a
considerable amount of perjury in this case and I have heard the
truth--not very pleasant truth, I admit.  Mr. Morelle has testified
for the accused with great frankness which I can admire.  His habits
and behavior are less admirable.  Next case!"

Ronnie was the last of the party to leave the court.  Lola came
hurriedly across the waiting room to clasp his hand.

"Oh, Ronnie, you--pal!  How lovely of you!  I never thought you were
such a brick!  Madame looked like hell--she's pinched all my jewelry
and now she'll have to give it up.  Ronnie, how can I thank you?"

"Lola--come to my flat, I want to talk to you."

François who opened the door to them was not surprised.  After all,
one could not expect Ronald Morelle to improve in every respect.  It
was a pleasure to work for him, he was so considerate.  Lola settled
herself in the most comfortable corner of the settee and waited for
François to go.

"You will have some tea?" Ronnie gave the order to a servant who was
no less surprised than Lola.

"What have you done with that picture that was over the mantelpiece?"
asked the girl, seeing a blankness of wall.

"I've burned it," said Ronnie.

"But it was worth thousands, Ronnie!  You told me so."

"It was worth a few hundreds.  If it had been a Titian I would not
have destroyed it--it had its use in a gallery.  But it was not.
Worth a few hundreds perhaps.  I burned it.  François cut it into
strips and we burned it in the furnace fire.  François and I had a
great day.  He did not think the picture was pretty."

"It was your favorite?"

"_Was_ it?"  He was astonished.  "Well, it is burned: It was too
ugly.  The subject--no the figures were a little ugly.  Now, Lola,
what are you going to do?"

She had half made up her mind.

"I shall take a flat--"

He shook his head.

"In a way, I have a recollection that you told me you had relations
in Cornwall.  Was I dreaming?  And you said that when you had saved
enough money you were going to buy a farm in Cornwall and raise
hackneys.  Was that a dream?"

She shook her head.

"No, that is my dream," she said, "but what is the use of talking
about that, Ronnie.  It would cost a small fortune."

"Could you do it on five thousand?" he asked.

"With my money and five thousand--yes."

"I will lend you three thousand free of all interest, and I will give
you two thousand.  I won't give it all to you, because I want a hold
on you.  Easy money spends itself.  Will you go to Cornwall, Lola?"

François, entering, saved him from her hectic embrace.

"You're just--wonderful," she dabbed her eyes.  "I know you think I'm
dirt and I am--"

"Don't be silly.  Why should I think that?  I am not even sorry for
you.  Are you sorry for the train that is derailed?  You put it back
on the track.  That is what I am doing.  I am one of the derailers.
It amused me, it hurt you--oh, yes, it did.  I know I was not 'the
first', there would be an excuse for me in that event.  We are all
dirt if it comes to that--dirt is matter in the wrong place.  I want
to put you where you belong."

She was incoherent in her gratitude, awed a little by his seriousness
and detachment, prodigiously surprised that François remained on duty.

When on her way to the hotel which was to shelter her, she read the
evening newspaper, she could appreciate more fully just what Ronnie
had done.

"Read this!" said Evie tragically.

Christina took the newspaper from her hands.

"'A curious case'--is that what you mean?"

The report was a full one, remembering how late in the day the charge
had come up for hearing.

"Well?" said Christina, when she had finished reading.

"I shall write to Ronald."  Evie was very stiff, very determined,
sourly virginal.  "Of course, you can't believe all that you read in
the newspapers, but there is no smoke without fire."

"And every cloud has its silver lining," said Christina.  "Let us
_all_ be trite!  What is worrying you, Evie?  I think it was fine of
Ronnie to look after the girl."

"And they drove away from the court together!" wailed Evie.

"Why not?  It is much better to go together than by taking separate
routes and pretending they weren't meeting when all the time they
were."

"I shall write to Ronnie, I must have an explanation," Evie was firm
on this point.

Christina read the account again.

"I don't see what other explanation you can ask," she said.  "He has
said all that is fit for publication."

"What is this woman Lola to him?" demanded Evie furiously.  "How dare
he stand up--shamelessly--and admit--oh, Chris, it is _awful_!"

"It must be pretty awful for Lola, too," said Christina.  "That sort
of girl doesn't mind--she likes to have her beastly name in the
paper."

"You don't know," said Christina.  "I won't descend to slopping over
her poor mother, and her innocent sisters, and I'd die before I'd
remind you that once she was like the beautiful snow.  Ambrose always
said that there was a lot of sympathy wasted over sinners.  It is
conceivable that she was quite a decent sort until somebody came
along who held artistic views about marriage; most of these girls
start that way, their minds go first.  They get full of that advanced
stuff.  Some of 'em go vegetarian and wear sandals, some of 'em go on
the streets.  Generally speaking, the street girls are better fed.
But that is how they start: they reach the streets in their own way.
Some get into the studio party set.  They bob their hair and hate
washing.  They know people who have black wallpaper and scarlet
ceilings and one white rose rising from a jade vase.  Evie, I have
been laying on the flat of my back ever since I can remember, and
I've had a procession of sinners marching around my bed--literally.
Mother let people come because I was dull.  I don't know Lola.  She
is a little above us, but Lola's kind are bred around here by the
score, pigging four and five in a room; they have no reticences,
there are no mysteries.  All the processes of life are familiar to
them as children.  Then one fine day along comes Mrs. So-and-So and
sits on the end of this bed and weeps and weeps until mother turns
her out.  There was a woman in this road who broke her heart over her
daughter's disgrace.  And when they came to bury the good lady they
found she had never been married herself! All this weeping and
wailing and talking about 'disgrace' doesn't mean anything in this
neighborhood.  It is conventional, expected of them, like deep
mourning for widows and half mourning for aunts.  We haven't produced
many celebrities.  We had a chorus girl who was in a divorce case,
and there is a legend that Tota Belindo, the great Spanish dancer,
came from this street.  We turn out the tired old-looking girls that
you never see up west.  The Lolas come from families that care.  Nice
speaking people who haven't been taught to write by a sign-writer.
I've heard about them and met one.  She used to drink, that is how
she came to Walter Street.  That kind of a girl only pretends she
doesn't care.  She isn't like the hardy race of prostitutes we raise
in Walter Street."

"I think your language is terrible, Christina! I ought to know you
would defend this perfectly awful girl.  You take a very lax view,
Chris, it is a good thing I have a well-balanced mind--"

"You haven't," said Christina.  "It isn't a month ago that you were
sneering about marriage.  I believe in marriage: I'm old-fashioned.
Marriage is a wonderful bridge; it carries you over the time when, if
you're not married, you are getting used to a strange man and
comparing him unfavorably with your last.  Besides, it is easier to
divorce a man than to run away from him.  Divorce is so easy that
there is no excuse for remaining single."

"I don't know whether you're being decent or not, Christina.  But
there are some people who have never married all their lives, and
they've been _perfectly_ happy--of course, I can't tell you who they
are, it is absurd to ask me.  Only I know that there have been such
people--in history, I mean.  I believe in marriage, but it is much
worse to be married to somebody you don't love than to be living with
a man you do love."

"There are times when you remind me of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'," mused
Christina.  "I wonder why--oh, yes, little Eva who said such damnably
true things so very truly.  She died.  The book had to have a happy
ending anyway.  Eva--Evie, I mean, I should write to your slave
master and demand an explanation.  I'll bet you won't, though!"

"Won't I?"  Evie stiffened.  "I have my self-respect to consider,
Christina, and my friends.  I hope Teddy hasn't read the case."

She wrote a letter, many words of which were underlined, and notes of
exclamation stood up on each page like the masts of docked shipping.

Ronnie's answer was waiting for her next night.

"Will you come to the flat, Evie?"

Evie did not consult her sister; she took a lank young man into her
confidence.  Would he escort her and wait in the vestibule of the
flats until she came out?  Evie had discovered the need for a
chaperon.




IX

François opened the door, and Evie walked hesitatingly into the lobby.

Ronnie was at his table and he was writing.  He got up at once and
came to meet her with outstretched hand.

"It was good of you to come, Evie."

She started.  His voice was so changed--his expression, too.
Something had come into his face that was not there before.  A
vitality, an eagerness, a good humor.  She was startled into
beginning on a personal note.

"Why, Ronnie, dear, you have changed!"

She did not recognize how far she had departed from a certain program
and agenda she had drawn up.  Item number one was "not to call
Ronnie, 'dear'."

"Have I?"  He flashed a smile at her as he pushed a chair forward and
put a cushion at her back.

"Your voice even, have you had a cold?"

"No.  I am getting old," he chuckled at the jest.  Ronnie did not as
a rule laugh at himself.  "I had your letter about Lola.  I thought
it best that you should come.  Yes, Evie, all that was in the paper
was true.  I know Lola."

"And she has been--all that you said, to you?"

"Yes."  His voice was a little dreary.  "Yes--all that."

She sat tight-lipped, trying to feel more angry than she did, ("Be
very angry" was item two on the agenda).

"I'm sorry that you had to know, you are so young and these things
are very shocking to a good woman.  Lola has gone back to her people.
Naturally, I did not wish to appear in a police court, but there was
a conspiracy to send this girl to prison.  A late friend of mine was
in it.  I had to go to the court and tell the truth."

"I think it was very fine of you," she echoed Christina's words, but
was wanting in Christina's enthusiasm.

"Fine?  I don't know.  It was a great nuisance.  I have an unpleasant
feeling about courts."

He rubbed his chin; Evie saw nothing remarkable in the gesture.

"Of course, Ronnie," she began, laboring under the disadvantage of
calmness, for she could not feel angry, "this makes a difference.  I
was prepared to sacrifice everything--my good name and what people
thought about me--it was horrible of you, Ronnie--to take that girl
into the country when--when you knew me.  I can't forgive that,
Ronnie."

He stood by his table, his white hand drumming silently.

"Did you come alone?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"No, I brought a friend.  A gentleman.  I used to know him when I was
a child."

Ronnie looked at her searchingly.  His eyes were soft and kind.

"Evie, I will tell you something.  From the day I first met you I
intended no good to you.  When I arranged that we should go to Italy,
to Palermo, I knew in my wicked mind that you would grow tired of me."

He put it that way, though he was loath to tell even so small a lie.

"Since--since I saw you last, I have been thinking of you, thinking
very tenderly of you, Evie.  I have always liked you; Christina and I
have discussed you by the hour--"

"But you have never seen Christina until this week, Ronnie!"

Ronnie's hand went to his chin.

"Haven't I?"  He was troubled.  "I thought--let me say I have dreamed
of these discussions.  I dream a great deal nowadays.  Queer ugly
dreams.  I woke this morning when the clock was striking nine--I felt
so sad."

He seemed to forget her presence, for he did not speak for a time.
He had seated himself on the edge of the desk, one polished boot
swinging, and he was looking past her with an intensity of gaze that
made her turn to see the thing that attracted him.

Her movement roused him, and he stammered his apologies.

Taking courage from his confusion, Evie delivered herself of the
predication which she had not had the courage to rehearse.

"Ronnie, I think we've both made a great mistake.  I like you
awfully.  I don't think I could like a friend more.  But I don't
feel--well, you can see for yourself that we're not the same way of
thinking.  Don't imagine I'm a prude.  I'm very broad-minded about
that sort of thing, but you can see for yourself--"

He saw very clearly for himself and held out his hand.

"Friends?" he asked.

She experienced a thrill of one who creditably performs a great
renunciation without any distress to herself.

"Friends!" she said solemnly.

Ronnie walked round to his writing chair and sat down.  She found
satisfaction in the tremor of the hand that opened a portfolio on his
desk.

"And you're not hurt?" he asked anxiously.

"No, Ronnie."

"Thank God for that," said Ronald Morelle.  He was looking in the
black case: presently he pulled out half a dozen photographs and
passed them across to her.

"How perfectly lovely!" she said.

"Yes; in some respects more lovely than Palermo.  And there are no
earthquakes and no rumblings from old Etna."

She was looking at the photographs of a white villa that seemed to be
built on the side of a hill.  One picture showed a riotous garden,
another a lawn with great shady trees and deep basket chairs.

"That is my house at Beaulieu," said Ronnie, "I want you to help me
with that."

She looked at him, ready to reprove.

"Your mother is the very woman to run that house and the garden was
made for Christina."

Her mouth opened.

"Not you!" she gasped, "you aren't the man who wants a housekeeper.
Oh, Ronnie!"

"I haven't photographs of the Palermo villa.  I have sent for some.
An ideal place for a honeymoon, Evie."

He came round to the back of her chair and dropped his hand on her
shoulder lightly.

"When you marry a nice man, you shall go there for your honeymoon.
God love you!"

She took his hand and laid it against her cheek.

For the fraction of a second--

"I like Beaulieu, Ronnie, the house is a beauty--perhaps if I hurried
I could go there before mother."

In the hall below Mr. Teddy Williams discussed Canada with the hall
porter.  It was one of the two subjects in which he was completely
interested.

The other came down by the elevator, importantly, and they went out
into Knightsbridge together.

"I've been a long time, Teddy," she snuggled her arm in his,
"but--well, first of all, my answer is 'Yes'."

He paused, and in the view of revolted passersby, kissed her.

"And--and, Teddy, we'll go to Beaulieu afterwards.  Mr. Morelle has
promised to let us have his house."

"Isn't that grand!" said Teddy.  "We've got a town called Beaulieu in
Saskatchewan."




X

"Wasn't it just like Christina not to get excited with the great
news?  But really Evie was to blame, because she kept the greater
news to the last.

"I can't believe it.  That young man who called on Christina?  I
really can't believe it," said Mrs. Colebrook, who could, and did,
believe it.

"Why don't you yell, Chris!" demanded her indignant sister.

"I am yelling," said Christina placidly.  "I've been yelling longer
than you, for I knew that it was Ronnie's house when the letter came."

But the announcement of Evie's engagement had an electrifying effect.

"That is the first time I have ever seen Christina cry," said Mrs.
Colebrook with melancholy satisfaction.  "There's a lot more in
Christina than people think.  If she'd only showed a little more nice
feeling over poor Mr. Sault, I'd have liked it better.  But you can't
expect everything in these days, girls being what they are.  Well,
Evie, you're the first to go.  I don't suppose Christina will ever
marry.  She's too hard.  Canada won't seem so far if I'm in Bolo,
Boole--whatever they call it."

Evie was sitting with her mother in the kitchen; from Christina's
room came crooning.

  "My dear, oh my dear,
  Have ye come from the west--"


"Why Christina sings those old-fashioned songs when she knows
'Swanee' and 'The Bull Dog Patrol'--'Bull Frog', is it?--I can't
understand."

A rat-tat at the door made Evie jump.

Mrs. Colebrook's eyes went to the faded face of a clock on the
mantelshelf.  Allowing for day to day variation, to which the
timepiece was subject, she made it out to be past eleven.

"Don't open the door," she said.  "It may be those Haggins; they've
been fighting all day."

Evie went to the door.

"Who is there?"

"Beryl Merville."

Evie opened the door and admitted the girl.  Outside she glimpsed the
tail lamps of a car.

"You are Evie, aren't you?"  Beryl was breathless.  "Have you any
idea where I can find Ronnie?"

"Is that Beryl?"

It was Christina's voice; she came down in her dressing gown.

"I want to find Ronnie--I have been to his flat, he is not at home.
I must see him."

She was wild with fear, Christina saw that; something had happened
which had thrown her off her balance and had driven her, frantic, to
Ronnie Morelle.

"Come up to my room, Beryl," she said gently.

Mrs. Colebrook looked at Evie as the sound of a closing door came
down.

"It looks to me like a scandal," she said profoundly.

Evie said nothing.  She was wondering whether she ought not to have
been indignant at the suggestion that she knew the whereabouts of
Ronnie Morelle.  She wished she knew Beryl better--then she might
have been asked upstairs to share the secret.  After all, she knew
Ronnie better than anybody.

"Perhaps I am better out of it, Mother," she said.  "I am not sure
that Teddy would like me to be mixed up in other people's affairs."

Christina pushed the trembling girl on to the bed.

"Sit down, Beryl.  What is wrong?"

Beryl's lips were quivering.

"I must see Ronnie--oh, Christina, I'm just cornered.  That
man--Talbot, I think his name is, he is a friend of Ronnie's, has
written to father--the letter came by hand, marked 'Urgent', whilst
daddy was out, and I opened it."

She fumbled in her bag and produced a folded sheet and Christina read:


"_Dear Dr. Merville_: I think it is only right that you should know
that your daughter spent a night at Ronald Morelle's flat.

"Miss Merville, at Morelle's suggestion, told you that she had been
to a ball at Albert Hall.  I can prove that she was never at the
Albert Hall that night.  I feel it is my duty to tell you this, and I
expect you to inform Mr. Steppe, who, I understand, is engaged to
your daughter."


"How did he know?"

Beryl shook her head wearily.

"Ronald told him--about the ball.  When the elevator was going down,
the morning I left the flat, I saw a man walking up the stairs.  He
must have seen me.  Ronnie told me the night before that Jeremiah
Talbot was coming to breakfast with him.  I just saw him as the lift
passed him--he had stopped on the landing below Ronnie's and probably
recognized me.  Christina, what am I to do?  Father mustn't know.  It
seems ever so much more important to me now."

"When do you marry, Beryl?"

"The day after tomorrow.  I know Ronnie has quarreled with this man.
I read that story in the newspapers.  It was splendid of Ronnie,
splendid.  It was a revelation to me."

Christina bit her lip in thought.

"I will see Ronnie--tonight.  No, I will go alone.  I have been
resting all day.  You must go home.  Have you brought your car?
Good.  I will borrow it.  Give me the letter."

Beryl protested, but the girl was firm.

"You must not go--perhaps I am wrong about Ronnie, but I don't think
so.  Sir John Maxton has the same mad dream."

"What do you mean?"

Christina smiled.  "One day I will tell you."

The vision of her daughter dressed for going out temporarily deprived
Mrs. Colebrook of speech.  Before she could frame adequate comment,
Christina was gone.

She dropped Beryl at her house and drove to Knightsbridge.  The
porter was not sure whether Mr. Morelle was in or out.  It was his
duty to be uncertain.  He took her up to Ronnie's floor and waited
until the door opened.

"My dear, what brings you here at this hour?"

He had been out, he told her.  A Royal Society lecture on Einstein's
Theory had been absorbing.  He was so full of the subject, so alive,
so boyish in his interest that for a while he forgot the hour and the
obvious urgency of her call.

"I love lectures," he laughed, "but you know that.  Do you remember
how I was so late last night that your mother locked me out--no, not
your mother--it must have been François."  He frowned heavily.  "How
curious that I should confuse François with your dear mother."

She listened eagerly, delightedly, forgetting, too, the matter that
brought her.  The phenomenon had no terror for her, tremendous though
it was.  He was the first to recall himself to the present.

"From Beryl?" he said quickly, "what is wrong?"

She handed him the letter and he read it carefully.

"How terrible!" he said in a hushed voice, "how appallingly terrible!
He says she is marrying Steppe!  That can't be true, either.  It
would be grotesque--"

She was on the point of telling him that the marriage was due for the
second day, when he went abruptly into his room.  He returned,
carrying his overcoat, which he put on as he talked.

"The past can only be patched," he said, "and seldom patched to look
like new.  Omar crystallizes its irrevocability in his great stanza.
We can no more 'shatter it to bits,' than 'remould it nearer to our
heart's desire.'"

"Ronnie, Beryl is to be married the day after tomorrow."

"Indeed?"

He looked at her with a half smile and then at the clock.  It was a
minute past midnight.

"Tomorrow?"

She nodded.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Talbot.  He acted according to his lights.  You can't expect
a cockerel to sing like a lark.  There is no sense in getting angry
because things do not behave unnaturally.  I made him feel very badly
toward me yesterday.  I think he can be adjusted.  Some problems can
be solved: some must be scrapped.  Have you a car--Beryl's--good.
Will you drop me in Curzon Street?"

She asked him no further questions and when in the car he held her
hand in his, she felt beautifully peaceful and content.

"Good night, Christina.  I will see Beryl tomorrow."

He closed the car door softly and she saw him knocking at No. 703 as
she drove away.

The door was opened almost immediately.

"Is Mr. Talbot in, Brien?"

The butler stared.

"Why--why, yes, Mr. Morelle," he stammered.

He had not waited at table these past two days without discovering
that Ronald Morelle was a name to be mentioned to the accompaniment
of blasphemous et ceteras.

"He is in bed.  I was just locking up.  Does he expect you, Mr.
Morelle?"

"No," said Ronnie.  "All right, Brien, I know my way up."

He left an apprehensive servant standing irresolutely in the hall.

Jeremiah was not in bed.  He was in his dressing gown before a mirror
and his face was mottled with patches of gray mud--a cosmetic
designed to remove wrinkles from tired eyes.

Ronnie he saw reflected in the mirror.

"What--what the devil do you want?" he demanded hollowly.  "What are
you doing?"

"Locking the door," said Ronnie, and threw the key on to the pillow
of a four-poster bed.

"Damn you--open that door--you sneaking cad!"

Mr. Talbot experienced a difficulty in breathing, his voice was a
little beyond his control.  Also the plaster at the corner of his
mouth made articulation difficult.

"I've come to see you on rather a pressing matter," said Ronnie
evenly.  "You wrote a letter to Dr. Merville making a very serious
charge against my friend, Miss Merville.  I do not complain and I
certainly do not intend abusing you.  I may kill you: that is very
likely.  I hope it will not be necessary.  If you shout or make a
noise, I shall certainly kill you, because, as you will see, being an
intelligent man, I cannot afford to let you live until your servants
come."

Mr. Talbot sat down suddenly, a comical figure, the more so since the
dried mud about his eyes and the corner of his mouth made it
impossible that he should express his intense fear.  As it was, he
spoke with difficulty and without opening his mouth wider than the
mud allowed.

"You shall pay for thish, Morelle--vy God!"

"I want you to write me a letter which I shall give to Miss Merville
apologizing for your insulting note to the doctor--"

With a gurgle of rage, Talbot sprang at him.  Ronnie half turned and
struck twice.

The butler heard the thud of a falling body; it shook the house.
Still he hesitated.

"Get up," said Ronnie.  "I am afraid I have dislocated your beauty
spots, Jerry, but you'll be able to talk more freely."

Mr. Talbot nursed his jaw, but continued to sit on the floor.  His
jaw was aching and his head was going round and round.  But he was an
intelligent man.

When he did get up he opened a writing bureau and, at Ronnie's
dictation, wrote.

"Thank you, Jerry," Ronnie pocketed the letter.  "Perhaps when I have
gone you will regret having written and will complain to the police;
you may even write a worse letter to the doctor--who hasn't seen your
first epistle, by the way.  I must risk that.  If you do, I shall
certainly destroy you.  I shall be sorry because--well, because I
don't think you deserve death.  You can be adjusted.  Most people
can.  Will you put a stamp on the envelope, Jerry?"

At the street door: "Perhaps you will lose your job because you have
admitted me, Brien.  If that happens, will you come to me, please?"

The dazed butler said he would.

Ronnie stopped at a pillar box to post the letter and walked home.




XI

Jan Steppe was an early riser.  He was up at six; at seven o'clock he
was at his desk with the contents of the morning newspapers
completely digested.  By the time most people were sleepily inquiring
the state of the weather, he had dealt with his correspondence and
had prepared his daily plan.

In view of his early departure from London he had cleared off such
arrears of work as there was.  It was very little, for his method did
not admit of an accumulation of unsettled affairs.  A man not easily
troubled, he had been of late considerably perturbed by the erratic
behavior of certain stocks.  He had every reason to be satisfied on
the whole, because a miracle had happened.  Klein River Diamonds had
soared to an unbelievable price.  A new pipe had been discovered on
the property and the shares had jumped to one hundred and twelve,
which would have been a fortunate development for Dr. Merville who
once held a large parcel, had not Steppe purchased his entire holding
at fifteen.  He did this before the news was made public that the
pipe had been located.  Before Steppe himself knew--as he swore,
sitting within a yard of the code telegram from his South African
agent that had brought him the news twenty-four hours before it was
published.  So that the doctor was in this position: he owed money to
Steppe for shares which had made Steppe a profit.

Ronnie had had a large holding.  He was deputy chairman of the
company.  The day following the execution of Ambrose Sault, Steppe
sent him a peremptory note enclosing a transfer and a cheque.  Ronnie
put cheque and transfer away in a drawer and did not read the letter.
For some extraordinary reason on that day he could not read easily.
Letters frightened him and he had to summon all his will power to
examine them.  Nearly a week passed before he got over this strange
repugnance to the written word.

In the meantime Jan Steppe had not seen his lieutenant.  He never
doubted that the transfer, signed and sealed, was registered in the
books of the company.  Ronnie was obedient: had signed transfers by
the score without question.

On this morning of March, Mr. Steppe was delayed in the conduct of
his business by the tardy arrival of the mail.  There had been a
heavy fog in the early hours and letter distribution had been
delayed, so that it was well after half-past eight before the mail
came to him.

Almost the first letter he opened was one from the secretary of Klein
River.  He read and growled.  The writer was sorry that he could not
carry out the definite instructions which he had received.
Apparently Mr. Steppe was under a misapprehension.  No shares held by
Mr. Morelle had been transferred.  There was a postscript in the
secretary's handwriting:


"I have reason to believe that Mr. Morelle has been selling your
stocks very heavily.  He is certainly the principal operator in the
attack upon Midwell Tractions which you complained about yesterday."


Jan Steppe, dropping the letter, pushed his chair back from the desk.
A thousand shares in Klein River were at issue, he could not afford
to tear bullheaded at Ronnie Morelle.  So this was the bear--the
seller of stock!  Ronnie had done something like this before, and had
been warned.  Steppe let his fury cool before he got Merville on the
wire.  When, in answer to the summons, Merville arrived, Steppe was
pacing the floor, his hands deep in his trousers pockets.

"Huh, Merville?  Seen Ronald Morelle lately?"

"No: he hasn't been to the house for a very long time."

"Hasn't, huh?  Like him?"

The doctor hesitated.

"Not particularly: he is a distant cousin of mine.  You know that."

Steppe nodded.  He was holding himself in check and the effort was a
strain.

"He's selling Midwell Tractions: you know that?" he mimicked
savagely.  "I'll break him, Merville!  Smash him!  The cur, the
crafty cur!"

He gained the upper hand of his tumultuous rage after a while.

"That doesn't matter.  But I sent him a cheque and a transfer--one
minute!"

He seized the telephone and shouted a number.

"Yes, Steppe.  Has a cheque been passed through payable to Ronald
Morelle--I'll give you the number if you wait."

He jerked out a drawer, found the stub of a cheque book and turned
the counterfoil.

"There?  March seventeenth.  Cheque number L.V. 971842."

He waited at the telephone, scowling absentmindedly at the doctor.

"Huh?  It hasn't been presented--all right."

He smashed the receiver down on the hook.

"If he had paid in the cheque I would have got him--the swine!  But
he hasn't.  I sent orders to transfer his Klein Rivers.  I thought I
was doing him a good turn--just as I thought I was doing one for you,
Merville."

"And he refused to allow you to make the sacrifice," said the doctor
drily.

"I don't like that kind of talk, Merville," Steppe's face was dark
with anger.  "I want you to come with me.  I'm going to see
this--this thing.  And I'm going to get the transfer!  Make no
mistake about that!  Call up the filthy hound and tell him you are
coming round.  Don't mention me.  It will give him a chance of
getting rid of his women."

He listened to the telephone conversation that followed.

"What was he saying?"

"He asked me if there was anything wrong.  It struck me that he was
anxious--he asked me twice."

"That fellow has an instinct for trouble," said Steppe.

Ronnie was dressed, which was unusual for him, at this early hour.
And the doctor noticed, could hardly help noticing, that the library
was gay with flowers.  This also was remarkable, for Ronnie disliked
to have flowers in a room.  There were daffodils, _pierce-niege_,
bowls of violets, and through the open casement with its curtains
fluttering in the stiff breeze, Merville saw new window boxes ablaze
with tulips.

"You're admiring my flowers, Bertram," smiled Ronnie.  "I had to buy
them ready-grown and the gentleman who owns the flat has misgivings
as to the wisdom of flower boxes--he thinks they may fall on to
somebody's head.  Good morning, Steppe, you look happy."

Mr. Steppe was looking and feeling quite the reverse.  He forced his
face into a contortion intended to be a smile.

"Good morning, Ronnie.  I thought I'd come along and see you about
the transfer I sent to you.  You forgot to fill it up."

"Did I?"  Ronnie was genuinely surprised.  "I remember I had a letter
from you--"

He took a heap of papers from a drawer and as he turned them over,
Steppe's eyes lit up.

"That's it," he said, and offhandedly, "put your name against the
seal."

Ronnie took up a pen--and paused.

"I am transferring a thousand shares in the Klein River Diamond
Mining Corporation--at twelve.  They are worth more than that surely?
I thought I saw them quoted at a hundred and something?"

"They were twelve when I sent you the transfer," said Steppe.

"Why did you send it?  I don't remember expressing a wish to sell."

Here Steppe made a fatal mistake.  He had but to say, "You agreed to
sell," and Ronnie would have signed.  There were some incidents in
his past life that he could not remember.  But the temper of the big
man got the better of him.

"You're not expected to ask!" he roared, bringing his big fist down
on the table with a crash.  "You're expected to do as you're told!
Get that, Morelle!  I sent you the transfer and a cheque--"

"This must be the cheque," said Ronnie.  He looked at the oblong slip
and tore it into four pieces before he dropped the scraps into the
waste basket.

Steppe was purple with rage, inarticulate.

Then the transfer followed the cheque.

"Don't let us have a scene," said Dr. Merville nervously.  "You must
meet Steppe in this, Ronnie."

"I'll meet him with pleasure.  I have a thousand shares apparently;
he wants them--good!  He can pay me the market price."

"You dog!" howled Steppe, his face thrust across the table until it
was within a few inches of Ronnie's, "you damned swindler!  You're
going straight to the office of the Klein River Company and sign
another transfer.  D'ye hear?"

"How could I not hear," said Ronnie, getting up, "as to signing the
transfer, I will do so, on terms--if you are civil."

"If I'm civil, huh?  If I'm civil!  I'll break you, Morelle!  I'll
break you!  There's a little document in my safe that would get you
five years.  That makes you look foolish!"

"Take it out of your safe," said Ronnie coolly, "which I understand
the police have.  They will be glad to see it opened.  I could open
it myself if--if I could only remember.  I've tried.  When I saw a
paragraph in the paper about Moropulos, it made me shiver--because I
knew I could open the safe.  I sat up all one night trying to get the
word."

"You're a liar--the same damned liar that you've always been!  I want
that transfer, Morelle.  I'm through with you--after your appearance
in the police court.  You're a damned fine asset to a company!  You
and your Lola!  You will resign from the board of my companies.  Get
that!  And whilst I'm dealing with you, I'd like to tell you that if
you attack my stocks, I'll attack you in a way that will make hell a
cosy corner, huh?"

His hand shot out and he gripped Ronnie.

"Come here--you!  D'ye hear me.  I'll--"

Ronnie took the hand that grasped his collar and pried loose the
fingers; he did this without apparent effort.  The fingers had to
release their hold or be broken.  Then with a twist of his wrist he
flung the hand away.

"Don't do that, please," he said calmly.

Steppe stood panting, grimacing--afraid.  Merville felt the fear
before he saw its evidence.

"How did you do that?" panted Steppe.  It was the resentful curiosity
of the beaten animal.

Ronnie opened his mouth and laughed long and joyously.  He was,
thought the doctor, like a boy conjuror who had mystified his elders
and was enjoying the joke of it.  Then, without warning, he became
serious again and pressed a bell on his table.

"François, open the door--must you go, Bertram?  I wanted to see you
rather pressingly.  Steppe can find his way home, can't you, Steppe?
One can't imagine him getting lost--and he can ask a policeman."

"I'll settle with you later, Morelle.  Come on, Merville."

The doctor vacillated.

"Come on!" roared Steppe.

"I'll see you this afternoon.  I have an engagement now."

Merville went hastily after the big man.  Ronnie followed, overtaking
them as they were getting into the elevator.

"Will you tell Beryl that I am coming to see her tonight?"

"She'll not see you!" exploded Steppe, "no decent woman would see
you--"

"What an ape you are!" said Ronnie reproachfully, "don't you realize
that I'm not talking to you?"




XII

Jan Steppe's solitary lunch was served at midday, an hour which
ensured his solitude, for he was a man who liked his meals alone.  He
was nearing the finish of his repast, his enormous appetite
unimpaired by his unhappy experience of the morning, when two men
mounted the steps of his Berkeley Square residence.  They were
unknown to one another; one had walked, the other had descended from
a taxi, and they stood aside politely.

"You are first, sir," said the taller and healthier of the two.

Their cards went in to Jan Steppe together.  He saw the tall man
first, jumping up from the table and wiping his fingers on his
serviette.

"In the library, huh?"

He looked at himself in the glass, pulled his cravat straight, and
smoothed his black hair before he made his way to where the tall man,
hat in hand, was waiting his pleasure.

"Well, inspector, what do you want?"

Steppe jerked open the lid of a box and presented its contents for
approval.

"Thank you, sir," the inspector of police chose a cigar with care.
"It is about this Traction Company of your friend's--I think I
remember you saying that you were not in the flotation yourself?"

"No--I bought shares.  I have a large number.  What about it?"

"Well, sir," said the inspector, speaking slowly, "I am afraid that
matters are very serious--very serious indeed.  The Public Prosecutor
has taken action and a warrant has been issued."

Steppe was prepared for this.

"Have you the warrant?"

The officer nodded.

"Can it be put off until tomorrow?"

"Absolutely impossible, sir.  The best I can do is to defer its
execution until late tonight.  Even then I am taking a risk."

Steppe tugged at his little beard.

"Make it tonight," he said, "I'll undertake that he doesn't leave the
country--you won't let him know, of course?"

"No, sir."

If Steppe had offered as much money as he could command to secure the
escape of his victim, the bribe would have been rejected.  But a
postponement of arrest--that was another matter.

"Thank you, inspector."

"Thank you, sir; I shall put a couple of men on to watch him.  I must
do that, he will never know."

Steppe went back to the dining room very much occupied.

"No, I can't see anybody else--order the car.  Who is he?"

He took up the second card.

"Mr. Jeremiah Talbot."

The man who was concerned in the case where Ronald Morelle had
figured so ingloriously.  Perhaps he could tell him something about
Ronnie?  Something to his further discredit.

"Bring him in," and when the dapper Mr. Talbot appeared: "I can give
you two minutes, Mr.--er--Talbot."

"I've come from a sense of duty," began the injured Jeremiah.  "I'm
certainly not going to be intimidated by threats from a beast like
Ronald Morelle--"

Steppe cut him short.

"Is it about Ronald Morelle?  I haven't time to go into your
quarrels."

"It is about Ronnie--and Beryl Merville."

Jan Steppe gazed at the man moodily, then into the fire--then back to
Jeremiah Talbot.

"Sit down," he said.  "Now--"

Talbot told his story plainly and without trimmings, save that his
hatred of Ronnie led him to digress from time to time.

"You saw; you are certain?"

"Absolutely, I ran down the stairs.  There was a fellow taking
photographs outside, a man with a brown beard--"

Moropulos!  And the photograph was that of Beryl Merville!

"Go on."

"That is all.  I felt it my duty to tell you.  If Ronald Morelle
attempts to browbeat me, I'll give him in charge--"

"All right--you can go.  Thank you."

Jan Steppe had his own peculiar views on women in general, the
relationship of Beryl with Ronnie Morelle in particular.  Things of
that kind happened.  He had thought some such affair was possible,
and was neither shocked nor outraged.  Beryl did not love him, he
knew: she loved Morelle.  He grinned wickedly.

"The car, sir."

His first call was at the registrar's office.  The special license
had been secured a week before.

"I can marry you at half-past two," said the registrar, "we like a
day's notice, but in an exceptional case--"

Steppe paid.

The Mervilles had not gone in to lunch when he arrived.  Beryl was in
her room, the doctor working in his study.  Steppe wondered what he
was working at.

"I want to see Miss Merville--don't disturb the doctor."

She came down, a listless, hopeless girl.  Intuitively she knew that
he had been told.  What would he do: she stopped at the door of her
father's study, fighting her fear.  Should she tell him first?  In
the end she came to Steppe.

"Well, Beryl.  What is this I hear about Ronald Morelle and you, huh?"

"What have you heard?"

"That you've been his mistress--that's what I've heard.  Damned fine
news for a bridegroom, huh?  Does your father know?"

She shook her head.

"Do you want him to know?"

"I don't care."

"You don't care, huh?  Got that way now, so that you don't care.
You'll marry me this afternoon."

She looked up.

"This afternoon?"

"Yuh.  You'd better tell the doctor; you can tell him anything else
you like about Morelle--but if you don't tell, I won't."

Her hand had gone up to her cheek.

"This afternoon--I can't--give me a day--you said it would be
tomorrow.  I'm not ready."

"This afternoon at half past two.  Will you tell the doctor, or shall
I?"

She was trying to think.

"I'll tell him.  As you wish.  This afternoon."

Lunch went into the dining room.  Nobody touched food.  Steppe had to
return to the house to get the wedding ring, send telegrams changing
the date of his arrival in Paris, settle such minor details of
household management as the change necessitated.

He was at the registrar's office when they came, Dr. Merville and the
white-faced girl.  In a cab behind the doctor's car travelled two
Scotland Yard detectives.

The ceremony was simple.  The repetition of a few sentences and Beryl
Merville became Beryl Van Steppe.  She did not know that his name was
Van Steppe until she saw the marriage certificate.

"You can go home with your father.  Be ready to leave by the boat
train tonight."

So he dismissed her.  All the way back to the house the doctor was
talking, cheerfully, helpfully.  She did not hear him.  She was
looking at the broad gold ring on her finger.

As they were entering the house her father leaned back, and
scrutinized the street.

"I'm sure I've seen those two men before--weren't they waiting
outside the registrar's, Beryl?"

Beryl had seen only one man.  A man with a black beard, a broad,
swarthy face and two eyes wherein burned the fires of hell.




XIII

Evie brought the news at a run.  She had been shopping with
Teddy--the store had given her a holiday, and there was some talk of
subscribing for a wedding present.

"I said to Teddy, 'let's stop and see who it is'--we knew it was
somebody swagger by the two cars and the cab outside the door.  And
then I thought that I knew one of the cars.  I said, 'Teddy, I'll bet
it is Beryl Merville'--and it was!"

Christina was pale.

"She wasn't to be married until tomorrow," she insisted.

"Well, she's married.  My dear, she looked awful.  Teddy says--"

"Oh, damn Teddy!" snapped Christina and was sorry.  "I don't mean
that, but I'm so used to damning your young men that I can't get out
of the habit.  Did they go away together--Steppe and she?"

"No--she's gone back to the house with her father.  Steppe--is he a
man with black whiskers--well, he went alone."

Christina kicked off her slippers determinedly.

"I'm going to see her," she said.

"What do you think you can do?" asked the scornful Evie.  "Take my
advice, Christina, never interfere between man and wife.  Teddy
says--"

"I repeat anything I have already said about Teddy," remarked
Christina.  "Chuck over my shoes, Evie."

She could not tell Beryl.  She could tell nobody.  Ronnie Morelle
must be interpreted by those who saw.

She strode out thanking God for life, and Ambrose Sault for the
tingle of her soles upon the pavement.  Spring was in the air, the
park trees were studded with emerald buttons; some impatient bushes
had even come fully into leaf before the season had begun.  The sky
was blue and carried white and majestic clouds; the birds were
chattering noisily above her as she came through the park and the
earth smelled good, as it only smells in spring when the awakening of
life within its bosom releases a million peculiar odors that combine
in one fragrant nidor.

To Beryl's eyes the girl, with her peaked face and her flaming hair,
was a vision of radiance.

"So good of you--"  Beryl was on the verge of a breakdown as
Christina Colebrook put her arms about her shoulders.  "So lovely of
you, Christina--I wanted to see you.  I hadn't the energy to move--or
the heart."

"Why today?"

"Steppe knows everything.  He insisted upon today.  As well today as
tomorrow.  I am troubled about father.  I feel that something
dreadful is going to happen.  He is so restless and he has asked John
Maxton to come; John was a great friend of my mother's.  In a way I'm
almost glad that there is this other trouble hanging over us--that
sounds cruel to poor daddy, but it does distract me from--thoughts."

"What is this other trouble?"

But Beryl shook her head.

"I don't know.  There has been some unpleasantness about a company
father floated.  Jan Steppe did it really, father is only a
figurehead.  He has had people to see him, people from the Public
Prosecutor's office.  He doesn't talk much about it to me, but I have
a premonition that all is not well.  But, Christina, I'm just whining
and whining at you, poor girl!"

"Whine," said Christina.  "Go on whining.  _I_ should scream!  Beryl,
my love, you have to do something for me, something to relieve my
heart of a great unhappiness.  I intended seeing you today--you had
my letter?--well, I'm too late to stop you marrying.  I thought I
would be in time; but not too late to save your immortal soul."

"What--?"

"Wait.  I want you to promise me, by the man we hold mutually sacred,
that you will do as I ask.  No matter at what inconvenience or
danger."

"I will do anything you ask," said Beryl quietly.

"What time do you meet this Steppe?"

"I call for him at eight o'clock.  The boat train leaves at
nine-thirty."

"At eight o'clock you will go to Ronnie Morelle."

"No, no!  I can't do that--"

"You promised.  You will see him: go to his flat and see him.  Tell
him you are married.  Tell him the truth, that you are going away
with a man you hate.  Tell him that Steppe knows."

"I can't!  You don't know what you're asking, Christina, I've--begged
Ronnie before--begged him to run away with me.  I can't do that
again.  It is impossible."

"You need beg nothing--nothing.  Just tell him."

She caught the girl to her.

"Beryl, you're going to do what I ask you, dear?"

"Yes--you wouldn't ask me--"

"Out of caprice," finished Christina, "or cussedness, or a wish to
try experiments.  No.  But you must go, Beryl.  I--I think I should
kill myself if you didn't."

"Christina!  What do you mean?"

"I mean it is life to go and death not to go!" said Christina, with a
sort of ferocity that staggered her companion.  "That is what I
mean."  In a quieter tone: "Have you seen Ronald lately?"

Beryl shook her head.

"No.  I saw him that night--the night they killed Ambrose--oh--"

"Don't gulp," warned Christina.

"I'm not gulping.  I'm yearning.  I saw him yearning once, the dear,
I am trying to find some of his strength now.  It is a little
difficult."

On the way home Christina dropped into a telephone booth and paid
three precious pennies.

"Ronnie!  Christina speaking.  Beryl is coming to see you tonight.
At eight.  Wait for her--don't dare to be out."

She cut off before he could ask questions.




XIV

Sir John Maxton stayed to dinner.  Beryl did not put in an appearance
until just before eight.

"Already, Beryl?"

Dr. Merville scrambled up.  His face was gray, his eyes sunken, the
hands that took her by the shoulders shook.

"My dear--I hope I have done right.  I hope I have done right, my
little girl."

She tried to smile as she kissed him.

"Can't I take you to Berkeley Square, Beryl?" asked Sir John.

She shook her head.

"No, thank you, John--goodbye."

They stood together, bareheaded, on the pavement, and saw her go.  A
drizzle of rain was falling, the dull red furnace glow of London was
in the sky.

Together they walked back to the dining room and Maxton did not break
in upon the doctor's thoughts.

"Thank God she's gone," he whispered at last, "John, I'm at the end,
I know it.  Perhaps he'll help after--I'll be satisfied if he makes
Beryl happy."

"He could help now," said John Maxton.  "Why do you deceive yourself?
How can you hope for anything from Steppe?  I wish to God I had known
that this infernal marriage was for today."

"She wished it," said the doctor, "I should not have insisted, but
she wished it.  Steppe isn't a bad fellow--"

"Steppe is a scoundrel and nobody knows that better than yourself.
Why are you in any danger from the law?  Because you copied a draft
prospectus which Steppe drew up and issued it in your own name.
Steppe has only to appear as a witness and tell the truth, and he
would find himself in your place--supposing this comes to a
prosecution.  But he won't.  He could have saved--"

He stopped.

"Ambrose Sault?"

"He could have saved the body of Ambrose Sault from annihilation by a
word!  The draft of the prospectus is in existence.  It is in the
safe that Sault made.  Steppe could open it and ninety-nine
hundredths of your responsibility would be wiped out.  But he won't
risk his own skin."

"You think they will prosecute, John?"

Maxton considered.  There was nothing to be gained by evasion.

"I am sure they will," he said quietly, "if I were the Public
Prosecutor I should apply for a warrant on the facts as I know them."

The door opened.

"Will you see two gentlemen from Whitehall?" the maid asked.

It was Maxton who nodded.

"Bertram--you have to meet this ordeal--courageously."

The doctor got up as the detectives entered.

"I am Detective Inspector Lord, from Scotland Yard," said the first
of them, "you are Dr. Bertram Merville?  I have to take you into
custody on a charge of misrepresentation under the Companies Act."

"Very good," said Dr. Merville, "may I go to my room for a moment?"

"No sir," said the inspector.  "I understand you keep a medicine
chest in your room."

Maxton nodded approvingly.

He did not go to the police station with the prisoner.  He went in
search of Beryl--and Jan Steppe.




XV

Ronald Morelle on the hearthrug before his electric radiator watched
the fiery little wave that moved along the surface of the element.

In such moments of complete detachment, when his mind was free from
the encumbrance of active thought, he received strange impressions.
They were not memories, he told himself, any more than are those
faces which grow and fade in the darkness just between sleeping and
waking.  They were whisps of dreams that were born and dissolved in a
fraction of time.  He had seen such clouds grow instantly above the
lake of Geneva, and watching them from the terraces of Caux, had of a
sudden missed them, even as he watched.

So these impressions appeared and vanished.  There was one that was
distinct and more frequent than any other.  It was of a hut, long and
narrow.  Two broad sloping benches ran down each side and these, at
night, were packed with sleeping men.  The door to the hut was very
solid and was locked by a soldier--he could sometimes hear the swish
of the soldier's boots as he paced the gravel path surrounding the
hut.  Once a man had died--Ronnie helped to carry him out.  It was a
plague that had struck the island--island?  Yes, it was an island, in
the tropics, for the nights were very hot and the plants luxurious.

"There is a ring--will M'sieur require me?"

"Yes, stay, François."

Ronnie jumped up and dusted his trousers.  Another second, and he was
halfway across the room.

"I'm so glad that I came, Ronnie: it wasn't that Christina insisted:
I wanted to see you, dear."

How pale, how ill she looked, he thought, with a sinking heart.  She
was going away somewhere, for she was dressed for travelling.

"Beryl, my dear, you are not well?"

"Oh, I'm well enough, Ronnie," she glanced back at the door.  She
expected that any moment Steppe would come--he would guess.  There
was a train to be caught too--the madness of this visit!

He held both her hands in his.

"Beryl, they tell me you are going to be married--that isn't right,
Beryl, is it?"

She nodded.

"But Beryl--" he stopped.  "I saw you once and I was cruel, wasn't I?"

"What is the use of talking about it?  Ronnie, I hope you are going
to be a better man than you have been.  I admire you so much for
defending that poor girl.  You are trying to be different now."

"I think so."

"And--I'm believing you, Ronnie.  It is not easy to give up that
life?  Won't you want to go back to it again?"

He smiled.

"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes, with a stroke,
yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep."

She looked at him fearfully.

"Ronnie, how solemn you are--and you are so strong too--I feel it.
Ronnie, I am married!"

He bent his head as though he had not heard her.

"I was married today to Steppe.  Oh God, it is awful, Ronnie, awful!"

He put his arm about her and kissed the tearful face, and then--

Crash!

The door shook again.

"I think that is your husband," said Ronnie gently, "will you go into
my room?"

He opened the door for her and said "yes" with his eyes to the
alarmed François.

Steppe flung himself into the room.  In his great fur-collared coat
he looked a giant of a man.

"Well?" said Ronnie.

"Where's my wife!"  The man's voice vibrated.  "You swine!  Where is
my wife--she's come here--I know, to her damned paramour.  Where is
she?" he bellowed.

"She is in my room--" said Ronnie, and Jan Steppe staggered back as
if he were shot.

"In your room!"  He sounded as if he were being strangled.
"Well--now she can come to my room!  You called me an ape this
morning, I'll show you what kind of an ape I can be!  Beryl!" he
roared.

She came out, a tragic figure of despair.

"So you had to come and see him, eh--"

François had opened the door again, and a man came in unannounced.

"Steppe!"

It was John Maxton, and Steppe turned with a snarl.

"Merville has been arrested."

"Well?"

"My father!  Arrested?  Jan, I must go back--"

"You'll go with me, huh!  I haven't married your father or your
lover, either."

"What are you going to do?" demanded Maxton sternly.

"Catch my train!  You can't stop me--"

"Steppe, for God's sake think what you're doing."  Sir John Maxton
was pleading now with a greater intensity than he had ever pleaded
before a tribunal.  "You could save Merville--you have the draft of
the prospectus--"

"In the safe!  In the safe!" roared Steppe his face inflamed with
fury.  "Come, Beryl."

He held out his hand, but she shrank back behind Ronnie.

"Then open the safe," demanded Maxton.

"Go to hell!  All of you--don't stand up to me, Morelle, or I'll kill
you!  Beryl--"

"What is the word--this combination word, Steppe?  You can get away
tonight, they will find nothing until the morning--"

"I won't tell you, damn you!  I'll see you--"

"Judas!"

Ronnie Morelle stood, his finger outstretched stiffly pointing at the
other.

"Judas--J--U--D--A--S.  That is the word!"

Open-mouthed Steppe lurched toward him.

"You--you."  He struck, but his blow went wide and then Ronnie had
him by the shoulders and they looked into one another's eyes.

Beryl, horrified, sick with fear, saw her husband's face go livid,
saw him grimace painfully, monstrously.

"I know you--!" he screamed.  "I know you!  You're Sault!  Ambrose
Sault!--you're dead!  They hanged you, blast you!  Ambrose Sault--"
He put out his huge hands as to ward off a ghastly sight.

"Come along, Beryl," he mumbled, "you mustn't stay here--it is Sault.
Oh, Christ--"

He went down in a heap.

Beryl came forward groping like one blind.

"Ronnie----"  She stared into his eyes, and in his agitation he put
his knuckle to his chin.  "--oh, my dear!"




XVI

"Personally," said Evie, "I think she should have waited six months.
After all, Christina, even if her father was acquitted, there _is_ a
scandal.  I admit she was a wife in name only, as the pictures say,
but she _was_ Mrs. Steppe.  Teddy quite agrees with me: he says that
it isn't decent to marry within a week of your husband's death.
Don't think I'm hurt about Ronnie getting married, I wouldn't be so
small.  It is the principle of the thing."

Christina's mouth was bulging: Ronnie had sent her imposing
quantities of candy.

"Pass me that book about Beaulieu that you're sitting on, and don't
talk so much," she said.  "You're a jealous cat."

"I'm not, I declare I'm not.  I like Ronnie I admit, but there was
something lacking in him--soul, that's what it was, soul!"

"Did Ambrose Sault have soul?"

"Why--yes, I always thought he had soul."

"Then shut up!" said Christina, opening her book.



THE END




  _Books by Edgar Wallace_

  A KING BY NIGHT
  ANGEL, ESQUIRE
  CAPTAINS OF SOULS
  DIANA OF THE KARA-KARA
  DOUBLE DAN
  GREEN RUST
  JACK O' JUDGMENT
  KATE PLUS
  ROOM 13
  TAM O' THE SCOOTS
  TERROR KEEP
  THE ANGEL OF TERROR
  THE BLACK ABBOT
  THE CLUE OF THE NEW PIN
  THE CLUE OF THE TWISTED CANDLE
  THE CRIMSON CIRCLE
  THE DAFFODIL MURDER
  THE DOOR WITH SEVEN LOCKS
  THE FACE IN THE NIGHT
  THE FOUR JUST MEN
  THE GIRL FROM SCOTLAND YARD
  THE GREEN ARCHER
  THE HAIRY ARM
  THE MAN WHO KNEW
  THE MIND OF MR. J. G. REEDER
  THE MISSING MILLION
  THE OTHER MAN
  THE RINGER
  THE SECRET HOUSE
  THE SINISTER MAN
  THE SQUEALER
  THE STRANGE COUNTESS
  THE TERRIBLE PEOPLE
  THE TRAITORS' GATE
  THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS











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