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."