"I haven't given him up!" Evie snapped, "only he's busy tonight."
Christina chewed a toffee ball reflectively. "That man is certainly industrious," she said. "They will have to bring out new papers to print all he writes. Does he find time to eat?"
Evie lifted her nose scornfully. "What did you say to my Ambrose?"
"I told you."
"You said that you gave him a piece of your mind—that doesn't mean anything to me. Did you call him a murderer?"
"Of course I didn't—I hope I'm a lady."
"I've often hoped so, and maybe one of these days my hopes will be realized. So you didn't call him a murderer? You lost a great opportunity. Don't be offensive to him again, Evie," she said quietly.
Evie did not reply. When Christina spoke in that tone of voice she was frightened of her.
"What is Ambrose doing now?"
"I don't know—in the kitchen, I suppose, guzzling food. And I'm starving! But I won't sit down at the same table as a black man, I won't!"
"Don't be a fool, Evie. Go down and get some food. You can bring it up here and eat it. And, Evie—Ambrose is a very dear friend of mine and I dislike hearing you call him a 'black man'. He is almost as white as you and I. His great grandfather was an Indian."
"If you don't like to hear me say unpleasant things about your friends, don't say them about mine."
Here, Evie thought, not without reason, that she had a point which was worth laboring. She was astonished when Christina surrendered without firing another shot.
"Perhaps you are right, dear. Go and get something to eat."
Evie returned almost immediately with the news that the kitchen was empty and that she had seen one whom she was pleased to describe as "the enemy" bending over a wash-tub, his arms white with lather.
"Do you think he is making up to mother?" she asked, as that interesting possibility presented itself.
Christina choked. "Don't say funny things when I'm eating candy," she begged.
The revue had reached its seventh scene before Beryl and her escort were shown into the big stage box of the Pavilion. She had hardly taken her seat before she saw a familiar face in the stalls.
"Isn't that Mr. Moropulos?" she asked, and following the direction of her eyes he nodded. The Greek did not appear to have noticed them. He was conspicuous as being the only man in that row of the stalls who was not wearing evening dress.
"Yes, that is Moropulos. Don't let him see you, Beryl."
Apparently Mr. Moropulos did not identify the pair, for though he turned his head in their direction he showed no sign of recognition. Half-way through the last part of the revue, he disappeared and they did not see him again.
"And now home. It has been a jolly afternoon and evening," said Beryl as they came out.
Ronnie was looking round for his car. "What a fool I am," he said. "I told Parker not to wait—for some extraordinary reason I imagined your car would be here. We'll have to take a taxi."
The cab had hardly started before he tapped at the window and leaning out, gave a fresh direction.
"Come home and have some supper. I've just remembered that I told François I was bringing a couple of men home—told him early this morning."
She hesitated. "I can't stay very long," she said. "No—nobody is waiting up for me. My maid never does—it spoils my enjoyment of a dance if I think that I am keeping some poor girl out of her bed. I'll come in for five minutes, dear."
His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him. "Ronnie—I'm so glad all this has come about, darling—I've run after you—I know I have. But I don't care—four years seems such an awful long time to wait."
"An eternity," he breathed.
"And marriage is, as you say—in your immoral way—only a third party sanction—it is silly." He kissed her. An automatic lift carried them to the third floor and Ronnie went in switching on the lights.
"I wonder whether father will be angry," she asked, "if your man—"
"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. "He's never here after nine. This is my own room, Beryl—but you saw it when the doctor brought you here to dinner."
She walked over to the big black table and sat down.
"Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are, Ronnie! I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!"
He smiled indulgently.
"And there is your wicked Anthony! He looks worse by artificial light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go."
"Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry wine—?"
The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed.
"It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious when he comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone."
Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart. Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation for gallantry.
"Well—I'll eat just a little—and then you must take me home. You shouldn't have paid off the cab."
He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat on the edge of one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass.
She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. "No more, dear."
A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking. "No—!" And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold her. She relaxed, unresisting.
"I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let me go, darling—please." But he held her the tighter and she did not deny his greedy lips.
Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors.
"I don't want you here today—where is your friend?"
"In the pantry, sir."
"Well, take her with you—ah, François, listen. Turn these women out and then go out yourself—go to the city—and get—buy anything you like, but don't come back before eleven—no twelve."
He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her arm. She was not asleep—nor crying, as he had feared.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling—I must have fallen asleep."
"What is the time?" She did not turn but spoke into the pillow.
"Eight—curse it! You can't go home in evening dress."
"Why not?"
She struggled up, her face averted.
"It is the best way," she said, "will you get me a cab?"
When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the mirror. "It was very foolish," she remarked without emotion.
"There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an Albert Hall ball last night," said Ronnie, "and it is only eight—shall I come down with you?"
She shook her head. "No—just show me how to work the elevator. An Albert Hall ball? Where could I have been after that finished? You lie better than I, Ronnie."
"Having breakfast—lots of people make a special function of breakfast after those shows."
"All right—show me how the elevator works."
To her maid a quarter of an hour later: "I'm going to bed, Dean, and if Mr. Morelle rings up, will you tell him that I am very sorry I cannot see him this morning. You can bring me a cup of chocolate—yes, I've had breakfast, but bring me some chocolate."
She was standing by the window in a silk wrap when the maid brought the tray. Beryl did not look round.
"Put it down, Dean—I will ring when I want you."
She walked across the room and locked the door. Then she came to the mirror and looked for a long time at herself. "Yes—Beryl—itisyou! I was hoping it was somebody else!"
That same morning Mr. Moropulos asked a question of Ambrose Sault.
"What exposure should you give to a photograph taken, say, soon after eight o'clock in the morning?"
"What sort of a morning?"
"This morning."
Ambrose glanced out of the window.
"You could get a snap shot on a twenty-fifth of a second," he said.
Mr. Moropulos produced a folding kodak from his pocket. "Would this stop be wide enough?"
Ambrose took the camera in his hand. "Yes," he said. "What were you taking, a scene or a figure?"
"A figure," said Mr. Moropulos, "a lady in evening dress."
Ambrose smiled. "Eight o'clock is a funny time to photograph a lady in evening dress," he said.
"An amusing time—if one hadn't been waiting up all night to take it. I was here at five. Yes—I came back for the camera. I took a chance of missing the lady, but even if I had it wouldn't have mattered. But eight o'clock!" he laughed gleefully, "how very obliging. Sault, my Ambrosial man, I am going to sleep."
"I think you need it," said Ambrose.
He did all the work of the house, even to making Mr. Moropulos' bed and he was glad of the opportunity to "spring-clean" the sitting-room. He only interrupted his labors to cut a crust of bread and a slice of cheese for his lunch.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the telephone bell rang for the first time that day. "Is that Mr. Moropulos—is that you, Mr. Sault?"
"Yes, lady."
He recognized her voice instantly and his heart leaped within him.
"I'm so glad—will you come to the house please?"
"Yes—I'll come right away." He hung up the receiver as Moropulos strolled in yawning.
"He-e! Who was the caller?"
"A friend of mine," said Sault.
"Didn't know you had any friends—are you going? Make me some coffee before you go, Sault."
"Make it yourself," said Ambrose.
Moropulos grinned after him. "I'd give a lot of money to stick a knife into that big chest of yours, my good Ambrose," he said pleasantly.
Marie opened the door to the untidy visitor, showing him straight to the drawing-room and Beryl came halfway to him, taking his hand in both of hers.
"I'm so glad you've come—I had to send for you—do you mind? I want to talk to you—about nothing in particular—I'm nervy. Can't you tell from my hand?"
The hand in his was shaking, he felt the quiver of it. And she looked pale. Why had she sent for him? She was amazed at herself. Perhaps it was his strength she wanted; a rock on which she might rebuild the shattered fabric of her reason. She had been thinking of him all the afternoon. Ronnie never came to her mind. He was incidental—reality lay with the coarse-featured man whom she had likened to a Cæsar.
"I don't want you to do anything for me, except be here. Just for a little while." She was pleading like a frightened child.
"I am here—I will stay here until you want me to go," said Ambrose, and smiled into her eyes.
"Mr. Sault, I do so wish to talk about something. It won't hurt you will it?" She had only released his hands to pull a chair forward. Opposite to him she sat, this time both of her hands in his. Why? She gave up asking the question.
"You killed somebody, is it true—I knew it was true before I asked you. Did it injure you—make you think less of yourself—did you loathe the man you killed because he made you do it? You are looking at me so strangely—you don't think I am mad, do you?"
"I don't think you are mad. No, I didn't even hate the man. He deserved death. I did not wish to kill him, but there was no other way. There must be that definite end to some problems—death. There is no other. I believe implicitly in it—destruction. A man who is so vile that he kills in his greed or his lust! Who takes an innocent and a helpful life—helpful to the world and its people—you must destroy him. The law does this, so that the brain behind his wicked hands shall not lead him to further mischief. If you have a sheep-dog that worries sheep you shoot him. There is no other way. Or he will breed other sheep dogs with the same vice. Most problems are soluble by various processes. Some of them drastic, some of them commonplace. A few, a very few, can only be ended that way. My man was one of these. I won't tell you the story—he was a bad man and I killed him. But I didn't hate him, nor hate myself. And I think no less of myself—and no more. I did what I thought was right—I've never regretted it, but I've never been proud of it."
She listened, fascinated. The hands in his were quiet now, there was a hue in her cheeks.
"How fine to feel like that—to detach yourself—but why should you regret? You injured no one. Except the man and—was he married?"
He nodded. "I didn't know at the time. She came forward afterwards and paid the expenses of my defense—she hated him—it was very sad."
They were quiet together until she lifted her head and spoke. "Mr. Sault—I'm going to ask you another strange question. Have you, in all your life, ever been in love?"
"Yes," he said instantly.
"With a woman, just because she is a woman? As I might love a man because he has all the outward attractions of a man? Have you loved her just for her beauty and despised her mean soul and her vicious mind, and—and despising—still loved?"
She hung upon his words, and when he said "no" her heart sank.
"No—no, I couldn't do that. That would be—horrible!"
He shuddered. She had made Ambrose Sault shudder! Ambrose Sault who spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered at something, which, to him, was worse than murder! The fragrance of sin which had held to her and supported her through the day, was stale and sour and filthy. She shrank away from him, but he held her hands tightly.
"Let me go, please," her voice sounded faint.
"In a moment—look at me, lady."
She raised her eyes to his and they held them.
"I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed I would say; I never thought the words would come to me. Look at me, lady, a rough man—old—I'm more than fifty, ugly, with an old man's shape and an old man's hands. Illiterate—I love you. I shall never see you again—I love you. You are beautiful—the most beautiful lady I have seen. But it isn't that. There is something in you that I love—I don't know what—soul—spirit—individuality. I hope I haven't revolted you—I don't think I have."
"Ambrose!" She clutched at the hands he was drawing away. "I must tell you—there is nothing to love but what you see, there is no soul—no soul—nothing but weakness and a pitiful cowardice. I love a man who is like that, too. Foul, foul! But beautiful to look at—and, Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take."
Not a muscle of his face moved.
"I have given him everything—this very day—that is why I sent for you. There must be something in what you say—a spirit in me responds to you—oh, Ambrose, I love him!"
She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. There was a scent of some pungent oil—turpentine. But he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair.
"You think I'm—what do you think I am?" she asked.
"You know," he patted her shoulder gently. "I suppose you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this—I am not hurt. I can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn't like me to say that."
He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes. "How very beautiful it is!" he said.
She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears.
"I said I wouldn't see you again. Perhaps I won't—but if you want me send for me."
She dried her eyes. "I'm a weakling—I wish I was wicked and didn't care—I don't care, really. What has happened is—" she shrugged, "it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me—nearly driven me mad. You are going now, Ambrose—that is so lovely in you—you even know when to go!"
She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she knew that he felt as she did.
"Come to me when I want you—I shall be busy inventing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose." When he had gone, she realized that no man's name had been mentioned. Perhaps he knew.
For the first time in his life Ronald Morelle was regretting an adventure. All day long he had been trying to write, with the result that his wastepaper basket was full of torn or twisted sheets, even as the silver ash-tray on the table was heaped with cigarette ends. He had gone half a dozen times to the telephone to call up Merville's house and had stopped short of giving the number. Then he tried to write her a note. He could think of nothing to say beyond the flamboyant beginning. What was the use of writing? And what was she thinking about it all? He wished—and he wished again. He had made a hopeless fool of himself. Why had he done it? For the truth unfolded as the hours passed, that an end must be found to this affair. In other casesfinishad been written at his discretion, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes with tears and recriminations. There had been instances that called for solid compensations. Beryl was not to be ended that way. Besides, he had half-promised her—he grew hot at the very thought of matrimony and in the discomfort of the prospect, the pleasant irresponsibilities of bachelorhood and the features that went to the making of his life, seemed too good to lose.
In such a mood, he thought of Evie Colebrook. How perfectly attractive she was; he could admire her virtue and coldbloodedly compare her with Beryl—to Beryl's disparagement. He was hemmed in by his new responsibility; ached to be free from fetters that were still warm from the forge. Late at night he wrote two letters, one to Beryl, the other and the longer to Evie.
Beryl had hers with her morning tea, saw who it was from the moment the maid pulled aside the curtains and let in the morning sunlight. She turned it over in her hand—now she knew. So that was how she felt about a letter from Ronnie. Not so much as a tremor, not a quicker pulsation of heart.
She opened the envelope and read:
"My very dearest: I don't know what to write to you or how. I adore the memory of you. I am shaken by the calamity—for you. Command me, I will do as you wish. I will not see you again though it breaks my heart."
It was written on a plain card, unsigned. She sent him a wire that morning: "Come to tea."
In answer came a hurried note by special delivery.
"I cannot: I dare not trust myself. I am overwhelmed by the sense of my treachery. That I should have brought a second's unhappiness to you!"
Unsigned. Ronnie never signed or dated such epistles.
She read the note and laughed. Yes, she could laugh.
On the third evening, her father returned in a most cheerful frame of mind. He had carried through a business deal, he and Steppe. And he had enjoyed the trip, having met a number of French medical men who had entertained him.
"They were charming, and the new Pasteur laboratories were most fascinating. We feared you would have had a dull time, Beryl. I hope Ronnie didn't desert you!"
"I am afraid he didn't," she said, and the doctor beamed. "You're not too fond of him, I am glad of that for he is rather a rascal. I suppose young men, some young men, are like that—conscienceless."
"Did you have a good crossing?" she asked, and turned the conversation into a more pleasant way.
"Sault was to have met us at the station but he did not turn up. Perhaps Moropulos is drinking. One never knows when Moropulos will break out. He is afraid of Steppe."
"Who isn't?" she asked with a grimace.
The doctor scratched his cheek meditatively. "I don't know—I'm not afraid of him. Naturally, I shouldn't like a rough and tumble with him, physically or verbally. Ronnie, of course, is in the most abject terror of him. The only man who isn't—er—reluctant to provoke him, is Sault." He chuckled.
"Steppe told me that he had a row with Sault over some girl that Ronnie had been carrying on with—the daughter of the woman Colebrook, my dear. Apparently, Sault went to our friend Jan and told him to put a stop to it, and Steppe was naturally annoyed, and do you know what Sault said?" Her eyes were shining.
"He told Steppe that in certain contingencies he would kill him, before his servant could reach him; to his face!"
"What did Mr. Steppe think of it?" she found her voice to ask.
"Amused—and impressed, too. He says Sault wouldn't tell a lie, wouldn't do a mean thing to save his soul. That is something of a testimonial from a man like Steppe who, I am sorry to say, is inclined to be a little uncharitable."
Beryl folded her serviette; she looked to be absorbed in the operation.
"He was telling me that Sault was one of the finest mathematicians in the country. And he doesn't read or write! Of course, he writes figures and symbols perfectly. He attends every lecture that he can get to; a remarkable personality."
"Very."
"I thought you rather liked him?"
She started from her reverie. "Who—Ambrose?"
"Ambrose!"
"That is his name, isn't it?"
"But, my dear," smiled the doctor indulgently, "you wouldn't call him by his Christian name! I think he would be rather annoyed to be treated like a servant."
"I wasn't thinking of him as a servant."
They got up from the table together and she went with him as far as his study door.
"What have you been doing with yourself—theatres?"
"Yes, and a ball. An all-night affair. I came home at eight."
"Humph—bad for you, that sort of thing."
She was sure it was. It was bad to lie, too, but she was beyond caring. Ambrose never lied. He would lie for her. Ronnie also would lie—for himself. She mused and mused, thinking of Sault—Ambrose Sault. And the red-haired invalid. And this sister of hers whom Ambrose had gone to Steppe about—she laughed quietly. She would have loved to have seen that contest of giants. Could Steppe be browbeaten? It seemed impossible, and yet Ambrose had cowed him.
She dreamed that night that she saw Ronald and Sault fighting with reaping hooks—she woke up with a shiver. For in her dream their heads had been exchanged, and Ronnie's face smiled at her from Sault's broad shoulders. It was growing light, she found, when she peeped through the curtains. She went to bed again, but did not sleep any more.
It was a coincidence that Ronald Morelle was also awake at that hour. His new responsibility was weighing on him like a leaden weight. She would never let him go. Her wire had terrified him. "There's no end to it!" he said with a groan, "no end."
He did not love Beryl; he loved nobody, but there were some girls whom he wanted to see again and again. Evie was one of that kind. He did not want to see Beryl. He pictured himself chained for life to a woman who was now wholly without attraction. To this misery was added a new and unbelievable horror.
Steppe called just as Ronald was going out to lunch. At any time Steppe was an unwelcome visitor. In the state of Ronnie's nerves, he felt it impossible that he could support the strain of the big man's company for five minutes. He wished Steppe wouldn't barge in without warning. It was not gentlemanly.
"I'm awful glad to see you, Mr. Steppe; when did you get back?"
"Last night—I won't keep you a minute. I'm on my way to make a call on that swine Moropulos," he growled. "I want to see you about Beryl."
Ronald Morelle's heart missed a beat. Had she told? He turned white at the thought. Luckily Steppe was striding up and down the room, hands in pockets, bearded chin on chest.
Ronnie's mouth had gone dry and he had a cold sinking feeling inside him. "Yes—about Beryl," he managed to say.
"You're a great friend of hers, huh? Known her for a long time?"
Ronnie nodded.
"You have some influence with her?"
"I—I hope so—not a great influence—"
"I am going to marry Beryl. The doctor has probably hinted to you that I have plans in that quarter, huh?"
Ronnie swallowed. "No," he said, "I didn't know—my congratulations."
"Keep 'em," said the other shortly, "they're not wanted yet. You're a great friend of hers, huh? Go about with her a great deal? I suppose it is all right. I'd pull the life out of you if it wasn't—but Beryl is a good girl—what I want you to do is this; give me a good name. If you have any influence, use it. Get that?"
"Certainly," Morelle found voice to say, "I'll do what I can."
"That's all right. And, Morelle, when I'm married you won't be asked to spend a great deal of time at my house. You'll come when I invite you. That's straight, huh? So long."
Ronald shut the door on him.
What a mess! What a perfect hell of a mess he was in. He stood by the window, biting his nails. Suppose Beryl told? He wiped his forehead. Girls had queer ideas about their duty in that respect. He knew of cases. One of those threatening gestures which had come his way was the result of such a misguided act of confession on the part of a girl whom he had treated very handsomely indeed. A baser case of ingratitude it would be difficult to imagine. Beryl might. She had principles. Phew!
He heard the trill of the telephone in François' pantry.
"Mr. Moropulos," said François, emerging from his room.
Ronnie scowled. "Tell him—no, put him through." He laid down his walking stick and gloves.
"Yes, Moropulos—good morning—lunch? Well, I was going out to lunch with some people."
Moropulos said that his business was important.
"All right—oh, anywhere—one of those little places in Soho." He slammed down the instrument viciously. But this was a time to consolidate his friends and their interests. Not that Moropulos was a friend, but he was useful and might be more so.
The Greek arrived at the restaurant to the minute and was looking more spruce than usual.
"Have you seen Steppe?" was his first question.
"I understood he was on his way to see you—he seemed angry," said Ronnie.
"Our dear Steppe is always angry," answered the Greek coolly. "This time, however, he has no cause. If he has gone to my house, he will not see me."
"What is the trouble?"
Moropulos shrugged. "He has been informed by evil-minded people that during his absence I was—well, not to put too fine a point on it, very drunk."
"And were you?"
"On the contrary, at the very hour, when his spies informed him I was dancing on a table in a low part of the east end, and shouting that the Mackenzie report was a forgery—"
Ronnie went pale. "Good God! You never said that?" he gasped.
"Of course not. If I had, it would be a serious thing for me. I, Paul Moropulos, tell you, Ronald Morelle, that it would be a disastrous thing for me. Just now my relations with dear Jan are—er—strained. I do not wish a breach."
"But surely if Steppe's men say—"
"'Let them say,'" quoted Moropulos, "it is what I say, and you say, and somebody else says, that counts, for at the very moment I was supposed to be misbehaving," he emphasized his words, "I was dining with you and the lovely Miss Merville in your flat."
"What! Why, that is a lie!"
"What is one lie worse than another? Observe I give you the date; it was one day before the charming Miss Merville spent the night with you alone in your very beautiful flat." Had the floor collapsed, Ronald Morelle could not have received a worse shock.
"I recognize your embarrassment and sympathize with you," said Moropulos, "but it is essential for my happiness and ultimate prosperity, that both you and Miss Merville should testify that I dined with you on the previous night."
Ronnie had nothing to say. He had not yet realized the tremendous import of the man's threat.
"I will save you a lot of trouble by telling you that I followed you from the Pavilion to Knightsbridge. I spent the whole of the night outside, wondering when she would come out, and I photographed her as she got into the cab. The photograph, an excellent one, is now in a secret place. Steppe, I hope, will never see it," he added, looking at hisvis-à-visfrom under his eyelids. "Steppe is angry with me; how unjust! It was impossible that I could have been making a fool of myself, at the very hour we three together were talking of—what were we talking of?—Greece, let us say, the academies. Steppe would not believe you, of course, but he would believe Miss Merville and a great unpleasantness would be avoided. I am sorry to make this demand upon you, but you see how I am situated? I swear to you that I had no intention of using my knowledge. It was an amusing little secret of my own."
Ronald found his voice. "Am I to tell—Miss Merville that you know? That you have a photograph?"
Moropulos spread his hands. "Why should she know? It is not necessary."
Ronnie was relieved. It was something to be spared the scene which would follow the disclosure that a third person was in their secret. He asked for no proofs that Moropulos knew, and any thought of the girl and what this meant to her, never entered his head. If Steppe knew! He grew cold at the thought. Steppe would kill him, pull his life out of him. Ronald Morelle was prepared to go a long way to keep his master in ignorance.
"I will see Miss Merville," he said, and then feeling that a protest was called for: "You have behaved disgracefully, Moropulos—to blackmail me. That is what it amounts to!"
"Not at all. It was a simple matter to tell Steppe that on the night in question I was waiting soberly outside your flat, watching his interests. He is immensely partial to Beryl Merville. A confusion of dates would not have been remarked; he would be so mad that the lesser would be absorbed in the greater injury. He, he would forgive—you—"
Ronald shuddered.
In the afternoon he made his call. "It is lucky finding you alone, dear," he began, awkwardly for him, "you'll never guess what I've been through during the past few days—"
She was very calm and self-possessed. A shade paler, perhaps, but she was of a type that pallor suited. And she met his eyes without embarrassment. That made matters more difficult for Ronald. He plunged straight away into the object of his visit.
"Where were you on Tuesday night, Beryl?"
She was puzzled. "Tuesday—? I forget, why?"
"Try to think, dear," he urged.
"I was dining at home. Father was out, I think. I'm not sure. I went to a concert after with the Paynters. Yes, that was it—why?"
"You were dining with Moropulos and I."
She stared at him. "I don't understand."
"Moropulos is in trouble with Steppe. He has been drinking and some of Steppe's watchers have reported that he made an ass of himself, gave away some business secrets, and that sort of thing. Steppe is naturally furious and Moropulos wants to prove an alibi."
"That he was dining with us, how absurd! Where?"
"In my flat."
She surveyed him steadily. He was unusually excited. She had never seen Ronnie like that before. Nothing ever ruffled him.
"Of course, I can't tell such a lie, even to save your friend," she said. "I was dining at home, although father has such a wretched memory that he won't be sure whether I was here or not."
"Where did you meet the Paynters, did they call for you?" he asked eagerly and she shook her head.
"No, I met them at Queens Hall. I was late and they had gone into the hall. But that is beside the point. I am not helping you in this matter."
"But you must, you must," he was frenzied. "Moropulos knows—he saw you come into the flat—and come out."
There was a dead silence.
"When—on that night?"
She walked across the room, her hands clasped behind her. Ronnie had expected hysteria—he marveled at her calm.
"Very well," she said at last. "I dined with you and Moropulos. You had better invent another lady. Let us be decent, even in our inventions. And Mr. Moropulos entertained us with talk about—what?"
"Anything," nervously, "I know that you think I'm a brute—I can't tell you what I think about myself."
"I can save you the trouble. You think you are in danger and you are hating me because I am the cause."
"Beryl!"
She smiled. "Perhaps I am being uncharitable. The complex of this situation doesn't allow for very clear thinking. I may take another view next week. Will you post this letter for me as you go out?"
He went down the stairs dumbfounded. Her quietness, the unshaken poise of her, staggered him. "Will you post this letter!"—as if his visit had been an ordinary call. He glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to a Bond Street milliner, and on the back flap was scribbled: "Send the blue toque also."
"H'm," said Ronnie as he dropped the letter into the post box. He felt in some indefinable way that he was being slighted.
Mrs. Colebrook acclaimed it as a miracle and discovered in the amazing circumstance the result of her industrious praying.
"Every night I've said: 'Please God, make Christina well, amen.'"
The osteopath, a short, bearded man, who perspired with great freedom, grunted his grudging satisfaction.
Christina was not well by any means, but for the first time in her life she stood upon her own two feet. Only for a few seconds, with Mrs. Colebrook supporting her on the one side and the bone doctor on the other, but she stood.
"Yes—not bad after a month's work," said the osteopath. "You must have massage for those back muscles, they are like wool. If you don't mind a man doing it, you couldn't do better than persuade Mr. Sault. He is an excellent masseur—I found this out by accident. The evening he came to engage me, I'd been dining out and sprained my ankle getting out of a cab—young lady, I observe your suspicion. I am an abstainer and have not touched strong wines for twenty years. I came in feeling bad and I was not inclined to discuss spines with him or anybody. But he insisted on massaging the limb—said he had learned the art in a hospital somewhere—yes, ask him. Otherwise it will cost you half a guinea a day."
Evie heard all this early in the afternoon. It was early closing day and she came home to lunch. She flew up the stairs and literally flung herself upon Christina.
"You darling. Isn't it wonderful! Mother says you stood up by yourself. Oh, Chris, didn't it feel splendid!"
"Mother is a romancer," smiled Christina. "I certainly did stand on my feet, with considerable assistance, and it felt like hell!—pardon the language—physically. Spiritually and intellectually it was a golden moment of life. Oh, Evie, I'm gurgling with joy inside and the prospect of Ambrose rubbing my back fills me with bliss."
"Ambrose—Mr. Sault?"
Christina inclined her head gravely.
"But not yourbareback?"
"I fear so," said Christina. "I knew this would be a shock to you."
"Don't be silly, Chris—it is all right I suppose," and then with a happy laugh, "of course it is all right. I'm wrong. I think I must have an unpleasant mind. You've always said I had—well, you've hinted. I'd even let him rub my back if it would do you good."
"You Lady Godiva," murmured Christina admiringly, "quo vadis?"
"That means where am I going? I always mix it up with that other one, 'the sign of the cross.' I am going to a matinee with a girl from the shop. She had tickets sent to her by a gentleman who knows the manager. It will be a bad play; you can't get tickets for a success. How is your Ambrose? I haven't seen him for weeks. Ronnie says that there has been an awful lot of trouble at the office—"
"Oh! Has he an office?"
"I don't know—some office Ronnie is connected with. He's a director, my dear. I saw his name in the paper—Ronnie, I mean."
"Has Ambrose been in trouble?"
"No, some other man, I forget his name. It is foreign and he drinks. But it has all blown over now."
Christina sighed. "I don't see how Ambrose came into it, even after your lucid explanation."
"Ambrose, that is to say Mr. Sault, is supposed to look after—whatever his name is. It sounds like the name of a cigarette. He is supposed to stop him drinking. And he found this—Moropulos, that's the name, in a bar and hauled him out and Moropulos fought him. I don't know the whole story but I do know that there was a row."
"Is the cigarette person still able to walk about?" asked Christina incredulously.
"Yes, but they are very bad friends. Moropulos says he'll get even with Sault."
"Unhappy man," said Christina, "Ronnie is getting quite communicative, isn't he?"
"We're real friends," answered the girl enthusiastically, "we're just pals! I sometimes feel—I don't know whether I ought to tell you this. But I will. I sometimes feel that I really don't want to marry Ronnie at all. I feel that I could be perfectly happy, married to somebody else, if I had him for a friend. Isn't that queer?"
Christina thought it was queer and wondered if this attitude of mind was Evie's very own or whether it had grown by suggestion. But she had evidently done Ronnie an injustice in this instance.
"I've never told Ronnie this," said Evie. "I don't fancy that he would understand, but I did ask him whether he thought that he could be friends with Beryl Merville if she married somebody else. I only asked him for fun, just to hear what he would say. My dear, how he loathes that girl! I could tell he was sincere. He was so furious! He said that if she married, he would never visit her house and he wished he had never seen her."
Christina made no response. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that Beryl Merville must know the man very well to have excited such hatred, but she observed the truce.
When Ambrose put in an appearance late in the evening she learned that he had heard from the osteopath. His large smile told her that even before he spoke.
"Now, Ambrose, did he say anything about massage?"
Ambrose nodded. "I'll do it if you'll let me," he said simply. "My hands aren't as awkward as they look."
Later her mother, who had been an interested spectator of the treatment, spoke a great truth. "It seems natural for Mr. Sault to be rubbing your back, Christina. He's just like a—a soul with hands—sounds ridiculous I know, but that is what I felt. He wasn't a man and he wasn't a woman. It seemed natural, somehow—how did you feel about it?"
"Mother, I begin to feel that I got my genius from you," said Christina, patting a rumpled sheet into place, "I couldn't have bettered that; 'a soul with hands'!"
Mrs. Colebrook blinked complacently. "I've always been a bit clever in describing people," she said. "Do you remember how I used to call Evie 'spitfire'?"
"Don't spoil my illusions mother—'a soul with hands' entitles you to my everlasting respect. And don't tell Evie, or she'll talk about his feet. He has big feet, I admit, though he makes less noise than Evie. And he snores, I heard him last night."
There came a day when Christina put her feet to the grimy pavement of the street and walked slowly but without assistance to Dr. Merville's car, borrowed through Beryl, for the afternoon.
It was a cold, clear day in January, the wind was in the east and the gutters of Walter Street were covered with a thin film of ice.
A momentous occasion, for in addition to other wonders, Christina was wearing her first hat! Evie had chosen and bought it. The woolen costume was one from Mrs. Colebrook's wash-tub. Ambrose had provided a gray squirrel coat. It had appeared at the last moment. But the hat was a joy. Christina had worn it in bed all the morning, sitting up with pillows behind her and a mirror in her hand.
"Lend me that powder-puff of yours, Evie," she said recklessly, "My skin is perfect. I admit it. But I can't appear before the curious eyes of the world wearing my own complexion. It wouldn't be decent."
"If you take my advice," suggested the wise Evie, "you'll put a dab of rouge on your cheeks. Nobody will know."
"I am no painted woman," said Christina, "I am poor but I am respectable. Ambrose would think I had a fever and send for the osteopath. No, a little powder. My eyes are sufficiently languorous without eyeblack, I think. It must be powder or nothing."
Ambrose did not accompany them, and Evie and Mrs. Colebrook were her attendants in the drive to Hampstead.
Beryl saw them; she had arranged with Ambrose and the chauffeur that the car should go past the house and she watched from behind a curtained window.
So that was Evie; it was the first time she had seen her—no, not the first time. She was the girl to whom Ronnie had been speaking that holiday morning when she had passed them in the park. She was very pretty and petite—the kind Ronnie liked. She lingered at the window long after they had passed, loath to face an unpleasant interview.
She knew it would be unpleasant; her father had been so anxious to please her at lunch; his nervousness was symptomatic. He wanted to have a little talk with her that afternoon, he said; she guessed the subject set for discussion.
Sitting before the drawing-room fire she was reading when he came in rubbing his hands, and wearing a cheerful smile which was wholly simulated.
"Ah, there you are, Beryl. Now we can have a chat. I get very little time nowadays."
He poked the fire vigorously and sat down. "Beryl—" he seemed at some loss for an opening, "I had a talk with Steppe the other day—we were talking about you."
"Yes?"
"Steppe is very fond of you—loves you," Dr. Merville cleared his throat. "Yes, he loves you, Beryl. A fine man, a little rough, perhaps, but a fine man and a very rich man."
"Yes?" said Beryl again and he grew more agitated.
"I don't know why you say 'Yes, yes,'" he said irritably, "a young girl doesn't as a rule hear such things without displaying some—well, some emotion. How do you feel about the matter?"
"About marrying Mr. Steppe? I suppose you mean that? I can't marry him: I don't wish to."
"I'm sure you would learn to love him, Beryl."
She shook her head. "Impossible. I'm sorry, father, especially if you wished me to marry him. But it is impossible."
The doctor stared gloomily into the fire. "You must do as you wish. I cannot conscientiously urge you to make any sacrifice—he is a rough sort, and I'm afraid he will take your refusal badly. I don't mind what he does—really. I've made a hash of things—it was madness ever to invest a penny. I had a hundred and fifty thousand when I came into this house. And now—!"
She listened with a cold feeling in her heart. "Do you mean—that you depend upon the good will of Mr. Steppe—that if you were to break your connection with him and his companies, your position would be affected—?"
He nodded. "I am afraid that is how matters stand," he said, "but I forbid you to take that into consideration." Yet he looked at her so eagerly, so wistfully, that she knew his lofty statements to be so many words by which he expressed principles, long since dead. The form of his vanished code showed dimly through the emptiness of his speech.
"I am a modern father—I believe that a girl's heart should go where it will. Girls do not marry men to save their families, except in melodrama, and fathers do not ask such a ghastly sacrifice. I should have been glad if you had thought kindly of Steppe. It would have made my course so much more smooth. However—" He got up, stooped to poke the fire again, hung the poker tidily on the iron and straightened himself.
"Let me think it over," she said, not looking at him. Not until he was out of the room did he feel uncomfortable.
She had been prepared for this development. Steppe had been a constant visitor to the house and his rare flowers filled the vases of every room except hers. And her father had hinted and hinted. That Dr. Merville was heavily in the debt of her suitor she could guess. Steppe had told her months before that he had to come to the rescue of the doctor. Only she had hoped that so crude an alternative would not be placed before her, though she knew that such arrangements were not altogether confined to the realms of melodrama. At least two friends of hers had married for a similar reason. A knightly millionaire bootmaker had married Lady Sylvia Frascommon and had settled the Earl of Farileigh's bills at a moment when that noble earl was dodging writs in bankruptcy. She could look at the matter more calmly because she had come to a dead end. There was nothing ahead, nothing. She did not count Ambrose Sault's love amongst the tangibilities of life. That belonged to herself. Steppe would marry that possession. It was as much of her, as hands and lips, except that it was beyond his enjoyment. In the midst of her examination, her father came in.
"There is one thing I forgot to say, dear—Ronnie, who is as fond of you as any of us, thinks that you ought to marry—he says he'll be glad to see you married to Steppe. I thought it was fine of Ronnie."
"Shut the door, father, please; there's a draught," said Beryl.
Dr. Merville returned to his study shaking his head. He couldn't understand Beryl.
So Ronnie approved! She sat, cheek in hand, elbow on knee, looking at the fire. Steppe did not seem so impossible after that. Ronnie! He would approve, of course. What terrors he must have endured when he discovered that Steppe was his rival! What mental agonies! An idea came to her.
She went down to the hall where the telephone was and gave his number.
"Hello—yes."
"Is that you, Ronnie?"
"Yes—is that you, Beryl?" his voice changed. She detected an anxious note. "How are you—I meant to come round yesterday. I haven't seen you for an age."
"Father says that you think I ought to marry Steppe."
There was an interval. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked.
"Yes—of course it is heartbreaking for me—I feel terrible about it all—but it is a good match, Beryl. He is one of the richest men in town—it is for your good, dear."
She nodded to the transmitter and her lips twitched. "I can't marry him without telling him, can I, Ronnie?" She heard his gasp.
"For God's sake, don't be so mad, Beryl! You're mad! What good would it do—it would break your father's heart—you don't want to do that, do you? It would be selfish and nothing good could come of it—"
She was smiling delightedly at her end of the wire, but this he could not know.
"I will think about it," she said.
"Beryl—Beryl—don't go away. You mustn't, you really mustn't—I'm not thinking about myself—it is you—your father. You won't do such a crazy thing, will you? Promise me you won't—I am entitled to some consideration."
"I'll think about it," she repeated and left him in a state of collapse.
It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraordinary callers at his bleak house in Paddington. They came furtively, after dark, and were careful to note whether or not they were followed. Since few of these made appointments and were unexpected, it was essential that the Greek should be indoors up to ten o'clock. Therefore, he failed in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him away from business. He was maintained in comfort by Jan Steppe to receive these shy callers. Mr. Moropulos was not, as might be supposed, engaged in a career of crime, as we understand crime. The people who came and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were respectable persons who followed various occupations in the city and would have swooned at the thought of stealing a watch or robbing a safe. But it was known in and about Threadneedle Street, Old Broad Street and in various quaint alleyways and passages where bareheaded clerks abound, that information worth money could be sold for money. A chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a board room, heard between the opening and closing of a door; a peep at a letter, any of these scraps of gossip could be turned into solid cash by the bearded Greek.
It was surprising how quickly his address passed round and even more surprising how very quickly Moropulos had organized an intelligence service which was unique as it was pernicious. He paid well, or rather Steppe paid, and the returns were handsome. A clerk desiring to participate in a rise of value which he knew was coming, could buy a hundred shares through Moropulos and that, without the expenditure of a cent. Moropulos knew the secrets of a hundred offices; there were few business amalgamations that he did not hear about weeks in advance. When the Westfontein Gold Mines published a sensational report concerning their properties, a report which brought their stock from eight to nothing, few people knew that Moropulos had had the essential part of the report in his pocket the day after it arrived in London. It cost Steppe three thousand pounds, but was worth every penny. The amount of the sum paid was exaggerated, but it was also spread abroad. And in consequence, Mr. Moropulos was a very busy man.
He was in his sitting-room on that shivering winter night. A great fire roared in the chimney, a shaded lamp was so placed, that it fell upon the book and the occupant of the sofa could read in comfort. On a small eastern table was a large tumblerful of barley water. From time to time Mr. Moropulos sipped wryly.
It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself whether he should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a café where he knew some friends of his would be, when he heard the street door slam and looked over his shoulder. It could only be Sault or—
The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the snow from the sleeve of his coat. It was a handsome coat, deeply collared in astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as Mr. Moropulos did not fail to observe.
"Alone, huh?" said Steppe. He glanced at the barley water by the Greek's side and grinned sardonically. "That's the stuff, not a headache in a bucketful!"
"Nor a cheerful thought," said Moropulos. "What brings you this way, Steppe?"
"I want to put some things in the safe."
Sault's invention stood on a wooden frame behind a screen.
"Have to be careful about this word—give me some more light," said Steppe at the dial.
Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch.
"That's better—huh. Got it!"
The door swung open and, taking a small package from his pocket, the big man tossed it in.
"Got something here, huh?"
He pulled out an envelope. There was a wax seal on the back.
"'The photograph'?" he read and frowned at the other.
"It is mine," said Moropulos.
"Nothing to do with the business?"
"Nothing."
Steppe threw it back and turned the dial.
"Nothing new, huh?"
He glanced at the barley water again.
"Where's Sault?"
"He goes home early. I don't see him again unless one of your hounds sends for him."
Steppe's smile was half sneer.
"You don't like Sault—a good fellow, huh?"
Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog. His beard seemed to stiffen and his eyes blazed.
"Like him—he's not human, that fellow! Nothing moves him, nothing. I tried to smash him up with a bottle, but he took it away from me as if I were a child. I hate a man who makes me feel like that—if he hadn't got my gun away I'd have laid him out. It would be fine to hurt the devil—and he is a devil, Steppe. Inhuman. Sometimes I give him a newspaper to read—just for the fun of it. But it never worries him."
"Don't try. He's a bigger man than you. You want to rouse him, huh? The day you do, God help you! I don't think you will. That's how I feel about him. He's cold. Chilly as a Druid's hell. He is dangerous when he's quiet—and he's always quiet."
"He is no use to me. It is a waste of money keeping him. I'll give you no more trouble."
Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache bristled like the end of a brush. It was a grimace indicative of his skepticism. He had reason.
"Leave it. Sault will not give you any bother. I don't want strangers here, huh? Cleaners who are spying detectives."
Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out. But he did not read. His eyes looked beyond the edge of the page, his mind was busy. Detestation of Ambrose Sault was not assumed, as he had simulated so many likes and dislikes. Sault's maddening imperturbability, his immense superiority to the petty annoyances with which his daily companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek's vulgarity, these things combined to the fire of the man's hatred. They were incompatibles—it was impossible to imagine any two men more unlike.
Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap enough though they were. He had collected from the Levant the pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville into the category of easy women. He had never doubted that she was bad. There were no other kind of women to Moropulos. Suspecting, before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle. He was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before, perhaps the previous night. Beryl was no less in his eyes than she had been. She was bad. All women were bad, only some were more particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.
He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning he brought news.
Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the house when he arrived.
"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of interesting information." Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away broom and spade before he joined the other.
"You know Beryl Merville, don't you? Steppe is marrying her."
He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something of the sensation which its recital had caused him. But his keen eyes did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came to his face. Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask descended again.
"What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?"
He added one of his own peculiar comments. "Who told you?"
"Ronald Morelle. I don't suppose he minds—now. Lucky devil, Steppe. God! If I had his money!"
Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found the chink in his armor. He was certain of it. It was incredible that a man like Ambrose Sault would feel that way, but he would swear that Ambrose was hurt. Here he was wrong. Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he was not hurt.
That day Moropulos said little. It was on the second and third days that he went to work with an ingenuity that was devilish to break farther into the crevice he had found.
Ambrose made little or no response. The slyest, most outrageous innuendo, he passed as though it had not been spoken. Moropulos was piqued and angry. He dare not go farther for fear Sault complain to Steppe. That alone held him within bounds. But the man was suffering. Instinctively he knew that. Suffering in a dumb, hopeless way that found no expression.
On the Friday night Ambrose returned to his lodging looking very tired. Christina was shocked at his appearance. "Ambrose—what is the matter?"
"I don't know, Christina—yes, I know. Moropulos has been trying, very trying. I find it so much more difficult to hold myself in. I suppose I'm getting old and my will power is weakening."
She stroked the hand that lay on the arm of the chair (for she was sitting up) and looked at him gravely.
"Ambrose, I feel that you have given me some of your strength. Do you remember how you gave it to mother?"
He shook his head. "No, not you—I purposely didn't. I've a loving heart for you, Christina. I shall carry you with me beyond life."
"Why do you say that tonight?" she asked with an odd little pain at her heart.
"I don't know. Steppe wants me to go down with Moropulos to his place in the country. Moropulos has asked me before, but this time Steppe asked me. I don't know—"
He shook his head wearily. She had never seen him so depressed. It was as if the spirit of life had suddenly burned out.
"I hope it will be as you say, Ambrose, but, my dear, you are overtired; we oughtn't to discuss souls and eternities and stuff like that. It is sleep you want, Ambrose."
"I'm not sleepy."
He bent over her, his big hand on her head. "I am glad you are well," he said.
She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, late as it was. A few minutes afterwards Evie came in.
"Where is Sault going?" she asked. "I saw him stalking up the street as though it belonged to him. And oh, Chris, what do you think Ronnie says! Mr. Steppe is marrying that girl who came here—Beryl Merville!"
"Fine," said Christina absently.
She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow for the man who had gone out into the night.
"The Parthenon" occupied an acre of land that had once been part of a monastery garden. Until Mr. Moropulos with his passion for Hellenic nomenclature had so named it, the old cottage and its land was known by the curious title: "Brothergod Farm", or as it appeared in ancient deeds, "The Farmstead of Brother-of-God."
For Mr. Moropulos there was a peculiar pleasure in setting up in the monastery land such symbols of the pantheistic religion of ancient Greece as he could procure.
The house itself consisted of one large kitchen-hall on the ground floor and two bedrooms above. A more modern kitchen had been built on to the main walls by a former tenant. The cottage was well furnished, and unlike his home in Paddington, the floors were carpeted, a piece of needless extravagance from the Greek's point of view, but one which he had not determined, for he had bought the cottage and the furniture together, the owner being disinclined to sell the one without the other.
The garden was the glory of the place in the summer. It had a charm even on the chill afternoon that Ambrose deposited his bag at the white gate. A wintry sun was setting redly, turning to the color of wine the white face of the fields. In the hollows of the little valley beyond the cottage, the mists were lying in smoky pools. His hands on the top of the gate, he gazed rapturously at such a sun set as England seldom sees. Turquoise—claret—a blue that was almost green.
Drawing a long breath he picked up his bag and walked into the house.
"Go down and look after Moropulos. He is weakening on that barley-water diet—he told me himself."
Thus Steppe. His servitor obeyed without question, though he knew that the shadow of death was upon him.
Moropulos was stretched in a deep mission chair, his slippered feet toward the hearth. And he had begun his libations early.
On the floor within reach of his hand, was a tumbler, full of milky white fluid. There was a sugar-basin—a glass jug half filled with water and a tea strainer. Ambrose need not look for the absinthe bottle. The accessories told the story.
"Come in—shut the door, you big fool—no you don't!" Moropulos snatched up the tumbler from the floor and gulped down its contents. "Ha-a! That is good, my dear—good! Sit down!" he pointed imperiously to a chair.
"You'll have no more of that stuff tonight, Moropulos." Ambrose gathered up the bottle and took it into the kitchen. The Greek chuckled as he heard it smash. He had a store—a little locker in the tool-shed; a few bottles in his bedroom.
"Come back!" he roared. "Come, you big pig! Come and talk about Beryl. Ah! What a girl! What a face for that hairy gorilla to kiss!"
Sault heard, but went on filling a kettle and presently the shouts subsided.
"When I call you, come!" commanded Moropulos sulkily as Ambrose returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
"Drink this," said Ambrose.
Moropulos took the cup and saucer and flung them and their contents into the fireplace. "For children, for young ladies, but not for a son of the south—an immortal, Sault! For young ladies, yes—for Beryl the beautiful—"
A hand gripped him by the beard and jerked his head up. The pain was exquisite—his neck was stretched, a thousand hot needles tortured his chin and cheek where the beard dragged. For the space of a second he looked into the gray eyes, fathomless. Then Ambrose broke his grip and the man staggered to his feet mouthing, grimacing, but silent. Nor did Ambrose speak. His eyes had spoken, and the half-drunken man dropped back into his chair, cowering.
When Sault returned to the room, after unpacking his bag, Moropulos was still sitting in the same position. "Do you want anything cooked for your dinner?"
"There is—fish—and chops. You'll find them in the kitchen."
He sat, breathing quickly, listening to the sizzle and splutter of frying meat. Ambrose Sault shut the door that led into the kitchen and the Greek stood up listening.
From beneath a locker he produced a bottle, quietly he took up the water-jug and sugar and stole softly up to his room. He locked the door quietly, put down his impedimenta and opened a drawer of an old davenport. Underneath an assortment of handkerchiefs and underwear, he found an ivory-handled revolver, a slender-barrelled, plated thing, that glittered in his hand. It was loaded; he made sure of that. His hatred of Ambrose Sault was an insensate obsession. He had pulled him by the beard, an intolerable insult in any circumstances. But Sault was a nigger—he sat down on the only chair in the room and prepared a drink.
"Are you coming down? I've laid the table and the food is ready," Ambrose called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Go to hell!"
"Come along, Moropulos. What is the sense of this? I am sorry I touched you."