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!
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 thatIwas 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 anawfullyvulgar 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.
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.
"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 transientxthat only abides in the body at the will of its host."
Ronnie groaned wearily. "Oh, God, are you going to lecture?" he asked and Jan Steppe roared at him.
"Shut up! Go on, Merville. Do you mean that it leaves the body before—death?"
"I think so," said Merville thoughtfully. "I've often stood by the side of a patient desperately sick, and suddenly felt in my body his despair and weakness, and seen him brighten and flush with my strength."
"Really?" Steppe's voice was intense. "Do you mean that your spirits have exchanged themselves?"
Dr. Merville flicked the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "Call it 'spirit', 'soul', 'X', anything you like—call it individuality. There has been a momentary exchange."
"How do you explain it?"
"Science doesn't explain everything," said Merville. "Science accepts a whole lot of what we call 'incommensurables'."
"H'm," Steppe pushed away the papers and rose. "H'm. That'll do for the night. Keep those papers, you fellows, and digest them. You going out, Morelle?"
"No, would you like me to go anywhere with you?" Ronnie was eager to serve.
"No," shortly. "Merville, I'm dining with you tomorrow. And I hope Beryl won't have a headache this time. I've got a box at the Pantheon."
The doctor was obviously embarrassed.
"She—well, she isn't very bright just now."
"Let her be bright enough to come to dinner tomorrow night," said Steppe.
The door banged and Ronnie drew a deep breath.
"Thank God," he said piously.
François went after them, not unhappy to detach himself from a tense and threatening atmosphere, his resentment against his employer somewhat modified when he reached home, by a letter from his visiting brother announcing the postponement of his departure from Switzerland.
Therefore it was Ronnie who answered the sharp ring of the bell. When he saw the girl his jaw dropped.
"Really, Beryl! You place me in a most awkward position. Whatever made you come? Steppe was here—suppose he came back? Why didn't you bring somebody with you?"
He was flustered and scared. Steppe might return at any moment.
"I'm sorry I have outraged the proprieties," said Beryl with a little smile. "Did that child from the druggist's have a chaperon?"
"Eh?" Ronnie was startled.
"I saw her come in and I saw her go out. I've been waiting for an opportunity of seeing you. She's pretty, but, oh, Ronald, she's only a baby!"
Ronnie made a quick recovery from his surprise. If she had seen Evie, she had also seen Steppe and must be sure that he had gone. She would probably know from her father what were their plans for the night.
"I give you my word of honor, Beryl," said he earnestly, "that she merely came to see me about her sister—you know her, Christina, I think she is called. Evie is very anxious that I should help send her abroad. As far as Evie is concerned, you can put your mind at rest. I give you my solemn word of honor that I have never a& much as held her hand."
She knew he was lying, but tonight of all nights she must accept his word. She was in a fever: it was almost painful to hold fast to the last shreds of her failing reserve.
"Ronald." Her voice was tremulous and he braced himself for a scene. "You don't want me to marry Steppe?"
So that was it. And he had thought she had accepted the position so admirably.
"Ronald, you know it would be—death to me—worse than death to me. Can't you—can't you use your imagination?"
Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a little of his poise. She had come as a suppliant, and would not be difficult to handle. The old Beryl, polished, cynical mistress of herself and her emotions, might have beaten him down; induced God knows what, extravagant promises.
"I don't want to talk about what has happened. I am not reproaching you or appealing to any sense of duty but—"
She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves into tight spirals. He said nothing, holding his arguments in reserve against her exhaustion.
"You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie. You do know—Steppe wants to marry me?"
He nodded.
"Do you realize what that means—to me, Ronnie?"
"He's not a bad fellow," protested Ronnie. "Really, Beryl, I never dreamed you were going to take this line. Is it decent?"
"He's—he's awful, Ronnie, you know he's awful. He's hideous, he's just animal all through. Animal with reasoning powers, gross—horrible. You liked me, Ronnie," she was pleading now. "Why—why don't you marry me? I love you—I must have loved you. I could learn to respect you so easily. They say you're rotten, but you're of my own kind. Ronnie, don't you know what it means to me to say this—don't you know?"
She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince. Hysteria—suppose Steppe did come back? He went moist at the thought.
"Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed. "It would save me. It would save father, too. He would accept the accomplished fact, and be relieved. Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body. I'd serve you as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I'd be—I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know—don't you realize what I am saying—?"
"My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is. I'm sure you'd be happy. I'm awfully fond of you—"
"Then take me away! I'll go with you tonight—now, now! Take me. Ronnie, I'll go—now—this very minute and I'll bless you. He wouldn't want me then. I know him."
"I—I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered.
"Take me," she urged desperately. "There is a train tonight for Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could love you—I could love you in gratitude—save me from this gross man."
Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said shrilly. "Steppe would kill me. Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe."
That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie was Ronnie. That was all. She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self.
That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret. Stampeded—she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear.
"I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs. "You need not get me a cab—this time. And Moropulos cannot photograph me. I might have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears. I couldn't do that. What a coward—but I won't reproach you, Ronnie."
She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This time he took no risks. He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out. Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves were jangled.
How quickly the days flew past! Beryl had a letter from Sir John Maxton one Saturday:
"I have seen our friend for the third time since the sentence; you know that on Tuesday he 'goes the way'—those are his own words. What can I tell you of him. Beryl, that you do not know? He has become one of my dearest friends. How strange that seems, written! Yet it is true and when he asked me if I would come and see him on the morning, I agreed. In France it is the custom of the defending advocate to be present—I am glad it is not necessary in England. Yet I shall go and I pray that I may be as fearless as he.
"He spoke of you yesterday and of 'Christina'—that is Miss Colebrook, isn't it? But so cheerfully!
"The officers of the prison are fond of him and even the chief warder, a hard-bitten Guardsman, who was the principal flogger at Pentonville for many years, speaks of him affectionately. Completely untroubled—that is how I should describe Ambrose. He has been allowed the privilege of a reader, one of the warders, an educated man who acts as librarian to the prison. He has chosen Gibbon's 'Roman Empire' and on my suggestion, he is concentrating on the chapters dealing with the creation of the Byzantine Empire. The story of Belesarius fascinates him; Belesarius is a character after his own heart, as I knew would be the case. The chaplain sees him frequently and Ambrose is politely attentive. It is rather like a village schoolmaster instructing Newton in astronomy. Ambrose is so far advanced that the good man's efforts to bring him to an understanding are just a little pathetic. 'I can't understand Mr. Pinley's God,' he said to me when I called immediately after the clergyman's visit. 'He is a slave's conception of a super-master—the superstition of a fighting tribe.' Ambrose holds to his own faith, which is comprehended in Henley's poem 'Out of the dark which covers me.' He recites this continuously.
"I said that he spoke of you and Christina. I asked him if he would like to see you both, knowing that if he did you would face the ordeal. But he said that it was unnecessary."
On the Monday evening Christina came to the house. They did not sleep that night.
"I suppose we're neurotic, but I never felt saner," said Beryl, "or more peacefully minded. And yet if it were somebody I did not know, some servant with whom I was just on nodding terms, I should be a bundle of nerves. And it is Ambrose! Christina, are we just keyed up, over-strained—shall we collapse? I have wondered."
"I shall not break," said Christina, "I have been worrying about you—"
Yet it was Christina on whom the chimes of the little French clock on the mantelpiece fell like the knell of doom.
"—six—seven—eight—nine!" counted Beryl, tense, exalted.
It was over. Ambrose Sault had gone the way.
"Goodbye, Ambrose!"
Christina's voice was a wail. Before Beryl could reach her, she had slipped to the floor in a dead faint.
Ronald Morelle came down the carpeted stairs of the House of Shame, and there was a half smile on his lips, as though the echoes of laughter were still vibrating through this silent mansion and he must respond.
The hall was in darkness except for the light admitted by a semi-circular transom. Turning his head, he saw that the door of the salon was ajar, and he hesitated. He had never seen the salon by daylight, only at night, when the soft lights were burning and silver chandeliers glowed with tiny yellow globes.
He pushed open the door. The darkness here had been relieved by somebody who had opened one window and unshuttered two others. The room was in disorder, chairs remained where the sitters had left them, and the cold gray light of morning looked upon tarnished gilding and faded damask, and the tawdry litter of the night before. Merciless, pitiless, contemptuous was the sneer of the clean dawn.
Ronald's smile deepened. And then he caught a reflection of himself in one of the long mirrors. He looked pale and drawn. He shivered. Not because the mirror gave back the illusion of a sick man—he knew well enough he was healthy—but because he glimpsed the something in his eyes, the leering devil that sat behind the levers and turned the switches of desire.
A car was waiting for him at the end of the slumbering street. Madame did not like cars at the door in the early hours of the morning, and he stepped in, wrapping his coat about him.
The sun had not yet risen and Wechester was a two hours run with a clear road.
Sault was in Wechester Gaol awaiting the dread hour, and from somewhere in Lancashire, a gaunt-faced barber who had marked in his diary the date of an engagement, had taken train to Ronald's destination, carrying with him the supple straps that would bind the wrists of the living and be slipped from the wrists of the dead.
The clear sky gave promise of a perfect winter day, but the morning air was cold. He pulled up the windows of the car and wished he had bought a newspaper or book to wile away the time. In two hours the soul of Ambrose Sault—
The soul! What was the soul? Was it Driesh's "Entelechy;" that "innnermost secret" of animation? Was there substance to the soul? Was it material? A flame, Merville had once called it, a flame from a common fire. Could the flame leap at will from a man's body and leave him—what? A lunatic, a madman, a beast without reason? Ronald shrugged away the speculation, but the scholar in him was uneasy and insensibly he came back to the problem.
The promise of fair weather was belied as the car drew nearer to Wechester. A mist, thin and white, lay like a blanket on the streets, and Ronald's car "hawked" its way into the still thicker mist which lay on Wechester Common. The car drew up at the prison gates, and he looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter of nine.
Ronnie saw a thin man, thinly clad, walking up and down outside. His hair was long and fell over his coat collar, his nose was red with the cold, and now and again he stopped to stamp his feet. Ronnie wondered who he was.
A wicket opened at his ring, and he showed his authority through the bars before, with a clang and a clatter of turning locks and the thud of many bolts, the door swung open and he found himself in a square stone room furnished with a desk, a high stool and one chair.
The warder took his authority and read it, made an entry in the hook, and rang a bell. It was a cheerless room, in spite of the fire, thought Ronald. Three sets of handcuffs garlanded above the chimney piece; a suggestive truncheon lay on brackets near the warder's desk, and within reach of his hand, and a framed copy of Prison Regulations only served to emphasize the bareness of the remaining wall.
Again the clatter and click of the lock and another warder came in.
"Take this gentleman to the governor's room," said the doorkeeper.
Ronald was amused because the second warder put his hand on his arm as though he were a prisoner, and did not remove his hand even when he was unlocking the innumerable gates, doors and grilles which stood between liberty and the prisoners.
The governor's room was scarcely more cheerful than the gatekeeper's lodge. There was a desk piled with papers, a worn leather armchair and an office smell which was agreeable and human.
The governor shook hands with the visitor, whom he had met before, and Ronald nodded to the two other pressmen who were waiting.
Then they took him out into the yard.
The warder led the way, and the doctor followed, then came the governor and last, save for the warder who brought up the rear, went Ronald Morelle, without a single tremor of heart, to the house of doom.
To a great glass-roofed hall with tier upon tier of galleries and yellow cell doors, and near at hand (that which was nearest to them as they came in) one cell, door ajar. Outside three blankets neatly folded were stacked one on each other. They were the blankets in which the condemned man had slept.
Here was a wait. A nerve-racking wait to those with nerves. Ronald had none. A small door opened into the yard and he strolled through it and found himself in a small black courtyard. Twenty paces away was a little building which looked like a tool house. There were two gray-black sliding doors and these were open. All he could see was a plain clean interior with a scrubbed floor, and a yellow rope that hung from somewhere in the roof. He was joined by an officer whom he took to be the chief warder.
Physically Ronald was a coward. He admitted as much to himself. He feared pain, he shrank from danger. In his questionable business transactions he guarded himself in every way from unpleasant consequences, employing two lawyers who checked one another's conclusions.
Yet he could watch the pain of others and never turn a hair. He had witnessed capital operations and had found stimulus in the experience which the hospital theatre brings to the enthusiastic scientist. He had seen death administered by the law in England, America and France. Once he stood by the side of a guillotine in a little northern town of France and watched three shrieking men dragged to "the widow" and was the least affected of the spectators, until the blood of one splashed his hand. And then it was only disgust he felt. He himself was incapable of violent action. He might torture the helpless, but he would have to be sure they were helpless.
"Chilly this morning, sir," said the chief warder conversationally, and said that he did not know what was happening to the weather nowadays. "Is this the first time you've been inside?"
"In a prison? Oh lord, no," said Ronnie.
"Ah!" The warder jerked his head toward the door. "On this kind of job?"
"Yes, twice before."
The officer looked glum.
"Not very pleasant. It upsets all the routine of the establishment. Can't get the men out for exercise till after it is over. They sit in their cells and brood—we always have a lot of trouble afterwards."
"How is he going to take it?" asked Ronald.
"Who, the prisoner?" Mr. Marsden smiled. "Oh, he's going to take it all right. They never give any trouble—and he—he'll go laughing, you mark my words. We like him, here—that's a funny thing to say, isn't it? But I assure you, I've had to take three men off observation duty—they are the warders who sit in the cell with him—they got so upset. It is a fact. Old fellows who'd been in the prison service for years. Here's the deputy."
A tall man in a trench coat had come through the grille.
"Good morning, Morelle, have you seen the governor?"
Ronnie nodded.
"He won't be here for the—er—event," said Major Boyle. "Between ourselves, he said he couldn't stand it. An extraordinary thing. Have you seen Sir John Maxton?"
"No, is he here?" asked Ronnie interested.
"He's in the cell with the man—there he is."
Sir John's face was gray: he seemed to have shrunken. He had not expected to see Ronnie, but he made no comment on his presence.
"Good morning, Boyle. Good morning, Ronnie. I have just said goodbye to him."
"Aren't you staying?"
"No—he understands," said Sir John briefly. Then he seemed to be conscious of Ronnie's presence. The deputy had gone back to the hall.
"Ronnie, how could you come here this morning—and meet the eyes of this man so soon to face God?" he asked in a hushed voice.
Ronnie's lips curled.
"I suppose you feel in your heart that it is a great injustice, that your noble-minded murderer should go to a shameful death, whilst a leprous but respectable member of society like myself walks free through that gate!"
"I would wish no man this morning's agony," said the other.
"Suppose you were God—"
"Ronnie, have you no decency!"
"Ob, yes—but suppose you were: would you transfer the soul and the individuality of us two, Ambrose Sault and Ronnie Morelle?"
"God forgive me, I would, for you are altogether beastly!"
Ronnie laughed again.
There was the sound of a slamming door and a man came into the yard, squat, unshaven, a little nervous. A derby hat was on the back of his head, and in his hands, clasped behind him, was a leathern strap.
"There's the hangman," said Ronnie. "Ask him what he thinks of murderers' souls! What is death, Sir John? Look at those tablets on the wall—just a few initials. Yet they sleep as soundly as the great in the Abbey under their splendid monuments. Though they were hanged by the neck until they were dead. You would like God to change us. One of those changes which Merville talked about the other night—it was a pity you weren't there."
Sir John said nothing: he walked to the grille and a warder unlocked the steel door. For a second he stood and then, as the hangman went into the hall, he passed out through the opened gate.
Presently two warders came from the hall and then another two, walking solemnly in slow step, and then a bound man; a great rugged figure who overshadowed the clergyman by his side. The drone of the burial service came to Ronald Morelle and he took off his hat.
Sault was reciting something. His powerful voice drowned the thin voice of the minister:
"It matters not how straight the Gate—"
He paced in time to the metre.
"How charged with punishment the scroll,
"I am the master of my fate—"
Nearer, and yet nearer, and then their eyes met!
The debonair worldling, silk hat in hand, his hair brushed and pomaded, his immaculate cravat set faultlessly—and the other! That big gray-faced man with the mane of hair, his rough clothes and his collarless shirt!
They looked at one another for a fraction of a second, eye to eye, and Ronald felt something was drawing at him, tugging at his very heart strings. The eyes of the man were luminous, appealing, terrible. And then with a crash the world stood still—all animate creation was frozen stiff, petrified, motionless, and Ronald swayed for a moment.
Then a firm hand on his arm pushed him forward. He stepped forth mechanically. He had a curious, almost painful feeling of restriction. And then he realized, with a half-sob, that his hands were bound behind him, strapped so tightly that they were swollen and tingling, and warders were holding his arms. He tried to speak, but no sound came, and looking up he saw—!
Once more he was looking into eyes, but they were the eyes of himself! Ronald Morelle was standing watching him with sorrow and pity. Ronald Morelle was watching himself! And then again the urgent hand pressed him forward and he paced mechanically.
"——I know that my Redeemer liveth——"
The little clergyman was walking by his side, reading tremulously. Ronald looked down at himself, his shoe was hurting him, somebody had left a nail there and he cursed François: but those were not his shoes he was looking at, they were great rough boots and his trousers were old and frayed and there was a shiny patch on his knee.
"—Man that is born of a woman hath but little time upon this earth, and that time is filled with misery—"
He walked like one in a dream into the shed and felt the trap sag under him. The executioner—it must be the executioner, he thought, stooped and strapped his legs tightly. Ronald wondered what would happen. It was an absurd mistake, of course, rather amusing in a way—François had not been paid his month's salary, and François was meeting his brother today from Interlaken, Interlaken in the Oberland.
The man put a cloth over his face—it was linen, unbleached and pungent. When the executioner passed the elastic loops behind his ears, he released one too quickly and it stung.
"It is not me, it is not me," said Ronald numbly, "it is the body of Ambrose Sault—the gross body of Ambrose Sault! I'm standing outside watching! It is Sault who is being hanged—Sault! I am Morelle—Morelle of Balliol—Major Boyle," he screamed aloud. "Major Boyle—you know me—I am Morelle—"
Yet his body was huge—he felt its grossness, its size, the strength of the corded muscles of the arm; the roaring fury of the life which surged within him. He heard a squeak—the lever was being pulled—
With a crash the trap gave way and the body of Ambrose Sault swung for a second and was dead, but it was the soul of Ronald Morelle that went forth to the eternal spaces of infinity.
The prison clock struck nine.
A warder came round the edge of the pit with his arms extended as the executioner, reaching out his hand, steadied the quivering rope. The prison doctor looked down the pit.
"He's all right," he said vaguely.
The tremulous clergyman was the last to go; backing out of the death chamber he watched the warders close and lock the doors.
The body of Ronald Morelle settled its top hat firmly on its shapely head and looked down at the little parson. There were tears in that good man's eyes.
"He was not bad, he was not bad," he murmured shakily. "I wish he had repented the murder."
"There was nothing to repent," said Ronald quietly, "if repentance were possible, the murder was unnecessary."
His voice was strangely deep and rich. Hearing himself, he wondered.
The minister looked up at him in surprise.
"He said exactly the same thing to me this morning," he said, "and in almost identical words; the poor fellow expressed his thoughts in language which seemed unnatural remembering his illiteracy."
"Poor soul," said Ronnie thoughtfully. "Poor lonely, lonely soul!"
He took the minister's arm in his and they walked back to the prison hall. There was a surplice to be shed, devotional books to be packed in a little black bag.
The condemned cell was being turned out by two men in convict's garb. One was using a broom, sweeping with long, leisurely strokes, and his face had a suggestion of sadness. The other was carrying out the remainder of the bedding and washing the utensils which the dead man had used. All this Ronald noticed with a curiously detached interest.
Shepherded back again to the governor's office, there was a form to be signed, testifying that he had witnessed the execution which had been carried out in a proper and decorous manner. Ronald took the pen and hesitated a second before he signed. The appearance of his signature on paper interested him—it was unfamiliar.
"You've seen these executions before, Mr. Morelle?" said the under-sheriff.
"Oh, yes," said Ronald quietly. "I do not think I shall come again. The waste of it, the malice of it!"
"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," said the under-sheriff gruffly and Ronald smiled sadly.
"The Old Testament is excellent as literature but in parts diabolical as a code of morals," he said, and went through the porter's lodge to the world.
There was a small crowd, some twenty or thirty people grouped at a distance from the gate. Their interest was concentrated upon the kneeling figure that confronted Ronnie as he walked out of the lodge.
"He comes here every time we have a hanging," said the gateman in Ronnie's ear.
It was the thin man in the threadbare coat; he knelt bareheaded, his blue hands clasped, his voice hoarse with a cold.
"—let him be the child of Thy mercies—pardon, we beseech Thee, O Lord our God, this our brother who comes before Thy seat of Judgment—"
Ronnie listened to the husky voice. Presently and with a final supplication, the man got up and dusted his knees.
"For whom are you praying?" asked Ronnie gently.
"For Ambrose Sault, brother," answered the man.
"For Ambrose Sault?" repeated Ronnie absently, "that is very sweet." He looked thoughtfully at the man and then walked away.
Following the Common road that would have taken him to Wechester, he heard a car coming behind him and presently the glittering bonnet moved past him and stopped.
"Excuse me, sir."
Ronnie looked round. He did not know the chauffeur who was touching his cap. And yet he had seen his face.
"I thought you may have missed the car—I had to park away from the prison."
Of course! He breathed a heavy sigh as the problem was solved. It was his own car and the chauffeur's name was Parker.
"I haven't the slightest idea where I was going," he laughed. "You look cold, Parker. We had better stop in Wechester and get breakfast."
Parker could only gape.
"Yes, sir," he stammered, "but don't worry about me, sir. I shall be all right."
Ronnie was puzzling again. Then he had it. The Red Lion! There was an inn just outside of Wechester; he had stopped there before. Apparently Parker expected some such directions.
They left the mists behind them at Wechester and came to the Red Lion.
A pretty girl waitress at the hotel saw Ronnie and tossed her head. Her manner was cold. He couldn't remember.
That was the oddness of it. He had lost some of his memories. They were completely blotted out from his mind. Why was this pretty girl so cross? He was to learn. Finishing his breakfast he strolled out into the big yard where the car was garaged. The chauffeur was at his breakfast.
"Hi! I want to have a talk with you!"
A man was approaching. He looked like a groom, wearing gaiters as he did, and he was in his shirtsleeves. Moreover, his style and appearance was hostile.
"You're the man who was staying here for the trial!" challenged the newcomer.
"Was I—I suppose so."
"Was you!" sneered the groom savagely. "Yes, you was! Staying here with a young woman and you went and interfered with my young woman. Yes, interfered—said things to her."
His voice went up the scale until he was shouting. There was a stir of feet and men and women came to the doors of outhouses and kitchens.
"Doesn't it strike you that you are making the young lady feel uncomfortable—if she is here," said Ronnie seriously. "You are shouting what should be whispered—no, no, Parker, please do not interfere."
"I'll tell you what does strike me," bellowed the groom, rolling up his sleeves, "that I'm going to give you the damnedest lacing you ever had—put 'em up!"
He lunged forward, but his blow did not get home. A hand gripped him by one shoulder and swung him round—crash! He fell against a stable door. Happily there was a wall for Parker to lean against. He was open-mouthed—incredulous.
Phew! Morelle who was ready to drop from terror at a threat, was standing, hands on hips, surveying the bewildered fire-eater.
"I'm extremely sorry you made me do that," he said almost apologetically, "but you really must not shout—especially about unpleasant things. If I—if I behaved disgracefully to the lady, I am sorry."
All this in a voice that did not reach beyond his adversary. Parker heard the low music of it and scratched his head. Morelle's voice had changed.
Later, when Ronnie was preparing to depart, Parker ventured to offer felicitations.
"I never saw a man go through it like that fellow did—and they think something of him as a fighter in these parts."
"It was nothing," said Ronnie hastily, "a trick—I learned it in New Caledonia from a Japanese who was in the same prison."
Parker blinked.
"Yes, sir," he said, and then Ronnie laughed.
"What on earth am I talking about? I think we will go home, Parker."
"Yes, sir," said Parker, breathing hard. He had never seen his master drunk before, and drunk he undoubtedly was, for not only had he fought, but he was civil. Parker hoped he would keep drunk.
In his pocket Ronnie found a gold cigarette case, a pocketbook, a watch and chain, a small billcase and a gold pencil. In his trousers pocket were a few silver coins and some keys. He found them literally; the seat of the car was strewn with his discoveries. Whose were they? The cigarette case was inscribed: "To Ronnie from Beryl." Ronnie—Beryl? Of course they were his own properties. He chuckled gleefully at his amusing lapse.
"No, I shan't want you again, Parker—how do I get into touch with you if—? Yes, of course, I 'phone you at the garage. Good morning."