BOOK THE FOURTH (continued 2)

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