Ronnie had some such idea when he parted from Maxton and the doctor. He went home to collect the bundle of books he had packed ready to take to Christina, and there discovered the reason why his absent-minded host had forgotten to put in an appearance.
Mr. Jerry Talbot was stretched exhaustedly in a lounge chair. He was a sallow young man with a large nose and a microscopic moustache. He had bushy eyebrows, arched enquiringly. Only one eyebrow was now visible, the other and the greater part of his slick head was hidden under black silk bandages. Looking at him, Ronnie wondered what he had ever seen in the man.
"Lo, Ronnie," he greeted the other feebly, "I tried to 'phone you but you were gone. I had a sort of faint after I spoke to you this morning, that's why I didn't turn up; so sorry. But look at me, old boy, look at me!"
"How did this happen?" asked Ronnie.
"Lola!"
Ronnie frowned. Lola? Who—? Yes, yes, Lola. He remembered.
"We had rather a hot time at my house last night, and Madame sent some of the girls along. Lola got tight and after some argument about a brooch that one of my guests had lost, Lola picked up a champagne bottle and—there you are!"
"Where is she?"
"In quod," said Mr. Jerry Talbot viciously. "I gave her in charge, and, Ronnie, she had the brooch! They found it at the police station. So I was right when I called her a thieving little—whatever it was I called her. It is an awkward business for me, old thing, but of course I'm swearing blue-blind that I never invited her and that she came in without—sort of drifted in from the street. Madame put me up to that. She's fed up with Lola and so are the other girls."
"Just wait a moment," said Ronnie frowning, "do I understand that Madame is going to disown this girl, this, what is her name—?"
"Lola," scoffed Mr. Talbot, "good heavens, you're not pretending that you don't know her! And you took her to Wechester with you—"
"Yes, of course I did," agreed Ronnie. "It is rather terrible work—straightening out the ravel of life—yes, I know her."
"Madame is disowning her, and so are the other girls. Between ourselves, Ritti has cleared out everything of Lola's and sent her trunks to a baggage office. None of her maids will talk, and naturally, none of the people who go to Ritti's. Lola has had a tip to shut up about Madame's, and if she is wise, she'll admit she's a street girl who had the cheek to walk into the party. I had to tell you, Ronnie, in case this infernal girl mentions you. She is being brought before the magistrate this afternoon."
And so came Lola from the dingy cells with her evening finery looking somewhat bedraggled, and standing in the pen, pale and defiant, heard the charge of assault preferred against her.
"Have you any witnesses to call?"
"None. All my witnesses have been standing on the box committing perjury," sobbed the girl, broken at last.
"I was invited. Mr. Talbot sent for me—he sent to Madame Ritti's—"
"Madame Ritti says that she hardly knows you. That with the exception of a few days last year, when you were staying with her, you have never been to the house," said the patient magistrate. "She made you leave her, because she found you were an undesirable."
"Your worship, there is a gentleman here who wishes to give evidence," said the usher.
Ronald Morelle stepped to the stand, smiled faintly at the open-mouthed surprise of Jerry Talbot, at the shocked amazement of Madame Ritti, and bowed to the magistrate.
He gave his name, place of living, and occupation.
"Now, Mr. Morelle, what can you tell us?" demanded the magistrate benevolently.
"I know this girl," he indicated the interested prisoner, "her name is Lola Pranceaux, or rather, that is the name by which she is known. She is an inmate of a house," he did not say "house," and Madame Ritti almost jumped from her seat at his description, "maintained by Madame Ritti. I can also assure your worship that she is very well known to the prosecutor, Mr. Talbot, and to me. I have taken her away to the country on more than one occasion. To my knowledge she was invited last night to Mr. Talbot's house. There is no reason why she should steal a trumpery brooch. She has jewels of her own. I myself gave her the solitaire ring she is now wearing."
The magistrate glared at Jerry Talbot.
"Are you pressing this charge?"
"No—no, your honor—worship," stammered Jerry.
The man of law wrote furiously upon a paper.
"You may go away, Pranceaux, you are discharged. I have heard a considerable amount of perjury in this case and I have heard the truth—not very pleasant truth, I admit. Mr. Morelle has testified for the accused with great frankness which I can admire. His habits and behavior are less admirable. Next case!"
Ronnie was the last of the party to leave the court. Lola came hurriedly across the waiting room to clasp his hand.
"Oh, Ronnie, you—pal! How lovely of you! I never thought you were such a brick! Madame looked like hell—she's pinched all my jewelry and now she'll have to give it up. Ronnie, how can I thank you?"
"Lola—come to my flat, I want to talk to you."
François who opened the door to them was not surprised. After all, one could not expect Ronald Morelle to improve in every respect. It was a pleasure to work for him, he was so considerate. Lola settled herself in the most comfortable corner of the settee and waited for François to go.
"You will have some tea?" Ronnie gave the order to a servant who was no less surprised than Lola.
"What have you done with that picture that was over the mantelpiece?" asked the girl, seeing a blankness of wall.
"I've burned it," said Ronnie.
"But it was worth thousands, Ronnie! You told me so."
"It was worth a few hundreds. If it had been a Titian I would not have destroyed it—it had its use in a gallery. But it was not. Worth a few hundreds perhaps. I burned it. François cut it into strips and we burned it in the furnace fire. François and I had a great day. He did not think the picture was pretty."
"It was your favorite?"
"Wasit?" He was astonished. "Well, it is burned: It was too ugly. The subject—no the figures were a little ugly. Now, Lola, what are you going to do?"
She had half made up her mind.
"I shall take a flat—"
He shook his head.
"In a way, I have a recollection that you told me you had relations in Cornwall. Was I dreaming? And you said that when you had saved enough money you were going to buy a farm in Cornwall and raise hackneys. Was that a dream?"
She shook her head.
"No, that is my dream," she said, "but what is the use of talking about that, Ronnie. It would cost a small fortune."
"Could you do it on five thousand?" he asked.
"With my money and five thousand—yes."
"I will lend you three thousand free of all interest, and I will give you two thousand. I won't give it all to you, because I want a hold on you. Easy money spends itself. Will you go to Cornwall, Lola?"
François, entering, saved him from her hectic embrace.
"You're just—wonderful," she dabbed her eyes. "I know you think I'm dirt and I am—"
"Don't be silly. Why should I think that? I am not even sorry for you. Are you sorry for the train that is derailed? You put it back on the track. That is what I am doing. I am one of the derailers. It amused me, it hurt you—oh, yes, it did. I know I was not 'the first', there would be an excuse for me in that event. We are all dirt if it comes to that—dirt is matter in the wrong place. I want to put you where you belong."
She was incoherent in her gratitude, awed a little by his seriousness and detachment, prodigiously surprised that François remained on duty.
When on her way to the hotel which was to shelter her, she read the evening newspaper, she could appreciate more fully just what Ronnie had done.
"Read this!" said Evie tragically.
Christina took the newspaper from her hands.
"'A curious case'—is that what you mean?"
The report was a full one, remembering how late in the day the charge had come up for hearing.
"Well?" said Christina, when she had finished reading.
"I shall write to Ronald." Evie was very stiff, very determined, sourly virginal. "Of course, you can't believe all that you read in the newspapers, but there is no smoke without fire."
"And every cloud has its silver lining," said Christina. "Let usallbe trite! What is worrying you, Evie? I think it was fine of Ronnie to look after the girl."
"And they drove away from the court together!" wailed Evie.
"Why not? It is much better to go together than by taking separate routes and pretending they weren't meeting when all the time they were."
"I shall write to Ronnie, I must have an explanation," Evie was firm on this point.
Christina read the account again.
"I don't see what other explanation you can ask," she said. "He has said all that is fit for publication."
"What is this woman Lola to him?" demanded Evie furiously. "How dare he stand up—shamelessly—and admit—oh, Chris, it isawful!"
"It must be pretty awful for Lola, too," said Christina. "That sort of girl doesn't mind—she likes to have her beastly name in the paper."
"You don't know," said Christina. "I won't descend to slopping over her poor mother, and her innocent sisters, and I'd die before I'd remind you that once she was like the beautiful snow. Ambrose always said that there was a lot of sympathy wasted over sinners. It is conceivable that she was quite a decent sort until somebody came along who held artistic views about marriage; most of these girls start that way, their minds go first. They get full of that advanced stuff. Some of 'em go vegetarian and wear sandals, some of 'em go on the streets. Generally speaking, the street girls are better fed. But that is how they start: they reach the streets in their own way. Some get into the studio party set. They bob their hair and hate washing. They know people who have black wallpaper and scarlet ceilings and one white rose rising from a jade vase. Evie, I have been laying on the flat of my back ever since I can remember, and I've had a procession of sinners marching around my bed—literally. Mother let people come because I was dull. I don't know Lola. She is a little above us, but Lola's kind are bred around here by the score, pigging four and five in a room; they have no reticences, there are no mysteries. All the processes of life are familiar to them as children. Then one fine day along comes Mrs. So-and-So and sits on the end of this bed and weeps and weeps until mother turns her out. There was a woman in this road who broke her heart over her daughter's disgrace. And when they came to bury the good lady they found she had never been married herself! All this weeping and wailing and talking about 'disgrace' doesn't mean anything in this neighborhood. It is conventional, expected of them, like deep mourning for widows and half mourning for aunts. We haven't produced many celebrities. We had a chorus girl who was in a divorce case, and there is a legend that Tota Belindo, the great Spanish dancer, came from this street. We turn out the tired old-looking girls that you never see up west. The Lolas come from families that care. Nice speaking people who haven't been taught to write by a sign-writer. I've heard about them and met one. She used to drink, that is how she came to Walter Street. That kind of a girl only pretends she doesn't care. She isn't like the hardy race of prostitutes we raise in Walter Street."
"I think your language is terrible, Christina! I ought to know you would defend this perfectly awful girl. You take a very lax view, Chris, it is a good thing I have a well-balanced mind—"
"You haven't," said Christina. "It isn't a month ago that you were sneering about marriage. I believe in marriage: I'm old-fashioned. Marriage is a wonderful bridge; it carries you over the time when, if you're not married, you are getting used to a strange man and comparing him unfavorably with your last. Besides, it is easier to divorce a man than to run away from him. Divorce is so easy that there is no excuse for remaining single."
"I don't know whether you're being decent or not, Christina. But there are some people who have never married all their lives, and they've beenperfectlyhappy—of course, I can't tell you who they are, it is absurd to ask me. Only I know that there have been such people—in history, I mean. I believe in marriage, but it is much worse to be married to somebody you don't love than to be living with a man you do love."
"There are times when you remind me of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'," mused Christina. "I wonder why—oh, yes, little Eva who said such damnably true things so very truly. She died. The book had to have a happy ending anyway. Eva—Evie, I mean, I should write to your slave master and demand an explanation. I'll bet you won't, though!"
"Won't I?" Evie stiffened. "I have my self-respect to consider, Christina, and my friends. I hope Teddy hasn't read the case."
She wrote a letter, many words of which were underlined, and notes of exclamation stood up on each page like the masts of docked shipping.
Ronnie's answer was waiting for her next night.
"Will you come to the flat, Evie?"
Evie did not consult her sister; she took a lank young man into her confidence. Would he escort her and wait in the vestibule of the flats until she came out? Evie had discovered the need for a chaperon.
François opened the door, and Evie walked hesitatingly into the lobby.
Ronnie was at his table and he was writing. He got up at once and came to meet her with outstretched hand.
"It was good of you to come, Evie."
She started. His voice was so changed—his expression, too. Something had come into his face that was not there before. A vitality, an eagerness, a good humor. She was startled into beginning on a personal note.
"Why, Ronnie, dear, you have changed!"
She did not recognize how far she had departed from a certain program and agenda she had drawn up. Item number one was "not to call Ronnie, 'dear'."
"Have I?" He flashed a smile at her as he pushed a chair forward and put a cushion at her back.
"Your voice even, have you had a cold?"
"No. I am getting old," he chuckled at the jest. Ronnie did not as a rule laugh at himself. "I had your letter about Lola. I thought it best that you should come. Yes, Evie, all that was in the paper was true. I know Lola."
"And she has been—all that you said, to you?"
"Yes." His voice was a little dreary. "Yes—all that."
She sat tight-lipped, trying to feel more angry than she did, ("Be very angry" was item two on the agenda).
"I'm sorry that you had to know, you are so young and these things are very shocking to a good woman. Lola has gone back to her people. Naturally, I did not wish to appear in a police court, but there was a conspiracy to send this girl to prison. A late friend of mine was in it. I had to go to the court and tell the truth."
"I think it was very fine of you," she echoed Christina's words, but was wanting in Christina's enthusiasm.
"Fine? I don't know. It was a great nuisance. I have an unpleasant feeling about courts."
He rubbed his chin; Evie saw nothing remarkable in the gesture.
"Of course, Ronnie," she began, laboring under the disadvantage of calmness, for she could not feel angry, "this makes a difference. I was prepared to sacrifice everything—my good name and what people thought about me—it was horrible of you, Ronnie—to take that girl into the country when—when you knew me. I can't forgive that, Ronnie."
He stood by his table, his white hand drumming silently.
"Did you come alone?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"No, I brought a friend. A gentleman. I used to know him when I was a child."
Ronnie looked at her searchingly. His eyes were soft and kind.
"Evie, I will tell you something. From the day I first met you I intended no good to you. When I arranged that we should go to Italy, to Palermo, I knew in my wicked mind that you would grow tired of me."
He put it that way, though he was loath to tell even so small a lie.
"Since—since I saw you last, I have been thinking of you, thinking very tenderly of you, Evie. I have always liked you; Christina and I have discussed you by the hour—"
"But you have never seen Christina until this week, Ronnie!"
Ronnie's hand went to his chin.
"Haven't I?" He was troubled. "I thought—let me say I have dreamed of these discussions. I dream a great deal nowadays. Queer ugly dreams. I woke this morning when the clock was striking nine—I felt so sad."
He seemed to forget her presence, for he did not speak for a time. He had seated himself on the edge of the desk, one polished boot swinging, and he was looking past her with an intensity of gaze that made her turn to see the thing that attracted him.
Her movement roused him, and he stammered his apologies.
Taking courage from his confusion, Evie delivered herself of the predication which she had not had the courage to rehearse.
"Ronnie, I think we've both made a great mistake. I like you awfully. I don't think I could like a friend more. But I don't feel—well, you can see for yourself that we're not the same way of thinking. Don't imagine I'm a prude. I'm very broad-minded about that sort of thing, but you can see for yourself—"
He saw very clearly for himself and held out his hand.
"Friends?" he asked.
She experienced a thrill of one who creditably performs a great renunciation without any distress to herself.
"Friends!" she said solemnly.
Ronnie walked round to his writing chair and sat down. She found satisfaction in the tremor of the hand that opened a portfolio on his desk.
"And you're not hurt?" he asked anxiously.
"No, Ronnie."
"Thank God for that," said Ronald Morelle. He was looking in the black case: presently he pulled out half a dozen photographs and passed them across to her.
"How perfectly lovely!" she said.
"Yes; in some respects more lovely than Palermo. And there are no earthquakes and no rumblings from old Etna."
She was looking at the photographs of a white villa that seemed to be built on the side of a hill. One picture showed a riotous garden, another a lawn with great shady trees and deep basket chairs.
"That is my house at Beaulieu," said Ronnie, "I want you to help me with that."
She looked at him, ready to reprove.
"Your mother is the very woman to run that house and the garden was made for Christina."
Her mouth opened.
"Not you!" she gasped, "you aren't the man who wants a housekeeper. Oh, Ronnie!"
"I haven't photographs of the Palermo villa. I have sent for some. An ideal place for a honeymoon, Evie."
He came round to the back of her chair and dropped his hand on her shoulder lightly.
"When you marry a nice man, you shall go there for your honeymoon. God love you!"
She took his hand and laid it against her cheek.
For the fraction of a second—
"I like Beaulieu, Ronnie, the house is a beauty—perhaps if I hurried I could go there before mother."
In the hall below Mr. Teddy Williams discussed Canada with the hall porter. It was one of the two subjects in which he was completely interested.
The other came down by the elevator, importantly, and they went out into Knightsbridge together.
"I've been a long time, Teddy," she snuggled her arm in his, "but—well, first of all, my answer is 'Yes'."
He paused, and in the view of revolted passersby, kissed her.
"And—and, Teddy, we'll go to Beaulieu afterwards. Mr. Morelle has promised to let us have his house."
"Isn't that grand!" said Teddy. "We've got a town called Beaulieu in Saskatchewan."
"Wasn't it just like Christina not to get excited with the great news? But really Evie was to blame, because she kept the greater news to the last.
"I can't believe it. That young man who called on Christina? I really can't believe it," said Mrs. Colebrook, who could, and did, believe it.
"Why don't you yell, Chris!" demanded her indignant sister.
"I am yelling," said Christina placidly. "I've been yelling longer than you, for I knew that it was Ronnie's house when the letter came."
But the announcement of Evie's engagement had an electrifying effect.
"That is the first time I have ever seen Christina cry," said Mrs. Colebrook with melancholy satisfaction. "There's a lot more in Christina than people think. If she'd only showed a little more nice feeling over poor Mr. Sault, I'd have liked it better. But you can't expect everything in these days, girls being what they are. Well, Evie, you're the first to go. I don't suppose Christina will ever marry. She's too hard. Canada won't seem so far if I'm in Bolo, Boole—whatever they call it."
Evie was sitting with her mother in the kitchen; from Christina's room came crooning.
"My dear, oh my dear,Have ye come from the west—"
"Why Christina sings those old-fashioned songs when she knows 'Swanee' and 'The Bull Dog Patrol'—'Bull Frog', is it?—I can't understand."
A rat-tat at the door made Evie jump.
Mrs. Colebrook's eyes went to the faded face of a clock on the mantelshelf. Allowing for day to day variation, to which the timepiece was subject, she made it out to be past eleven.
"Don't open the door," she said. "It may be those Haggins; they've been fighting all day."
Evie went to the door.
"Who is there?"
"Beryl Merville."
Evie opened the door and admitted the girl. Outside she glimpsed the tail lamps of a car.
"You are Evie, aren't you?" Beryl was breathless. "Have you any idea where I can find Ronnie?"
"Is that Beryl?"
It was Christina's voice; she came down in her dressing gown.
"I want to find Ronnie—I have been to his flat, he is not at home. I must see him."
She was wild with fear, Christina saw that; something had happened which had thrown her off her balance and had driven her, frantic, to Ronnie Morelle.
"Come up to my room, Beryl," she said gently.
Mrs. Colebrook looked at Evie as the sound of a closing door came down.
"It looks to me like a scandal," she said profoundly.
Evie said nothing. She was wondering whether she ought not to have been indignant at the suggestion that she knew the whereabouts of Ronnie Morelle. She wished she knew Beryl better—then she might have been asked upstairs to share the secret. After all, she knew Ronnie better than anybody.
"Perhaps I am better out of it, Mother," she said. "I am not sure that Teddy would like me to be mixed up in other people's affairs."
Christina pushed the trembling girl on to the bed.
"Sit down, Beryl. What is wrong?"
Beryl's lips were quivering.
"I must see Ronnie—oh, Christina, I'm just cornered. That man—Talbot, I think his name is, he is a friend of Ronnie's, has written to father—the letter came by hand, marked 'Urgent', whilst daddy was out, and I opened it."
She fumbled in her bag and produced a folded sheet and Christina read:
"Dear Dr. Merville: I think it is only right that you should know that your daughter spent a night at Ronald Morelle's flat.
"Miss Merville, at Morelle's suggestion, told you that she had been to a ball at Albert Hall. I can prove that she was never at the Albert Hall that night. I feel it is my duty to tell you this, and I expect you to inform Mr. Steppe, who, I understand, is engaged to your daughter."
"How did he know?"
Beryl shook her head wearily.
"Ronald told him—about the ball. When the elevator was going down, the morning I left the flat, I saw a man walking up the stairs. He must have seen me. Ronnie told me the night before that Jeremiah Talbot was coming to breakfast with him. I just saw him as the lift passed him—he had stopped on the landing below Ronnie's and probably recognized me. Christina, what am I to do? Father mustn't know. It seems ever so much more important to me now."
"When do you marry, Beryl?"
"The day after tomorrow. I know Ronnie has quarreled with this man. I read that story in the newspapers. It was splendid of Ronnie, splendid. It was a revelation to me."
Christina bit her lip in thought.
"I will see Ronnie—tonight. No, I will go alone. I have been resting all day. You must go home. Have you brought your car? Good. I will borrow it. Give me the letter."
Beryl protested, but the girl was firm.
"You must not go—perhaps I am wrong about Ronnie, but I don't think so. Sir John Maxton has the same mad dream."
"What do you mean?"
Christina smiled. "One day I will tell you."
The vision of her daughter dressed for going out temporarily deprived Mrs. Colebrook of speech. Before she could frame adequate comment, Christina was gone.
She dropped Beryl at her house and drove to Knightsbridge. The porter was not sure whether Mr. Morelle was in or out. It was his duty to be uncertain. He took her up to Ronnie's floor and waited until the door opened.
"My dear, what brings you here at this hour?"
He had been out, he told her. A Royal Society lecture on Einstein's Theory had been absorbing. He was so full of the subject, so alive, so boyish in his interest that for a while he forgot the hour and the obvious urgency of her call.
"I love lectures," he laughed, "but you know that. Do you remember how I was so late last night that your mother locked me out—no, not your mother—it must have been François." He frowned heavily. "How curious that I should confuse François with your dear mother."
She listened eagerly, delightedly, forgetting, too, the matter that brought her. The phenomenon had no terror for her, tremendous though it was. He was the first to recall himself to the present.
"From Beryl?" he said quickly, "what is wrong?"
She handed him the letter and he read it carefully.
"How terrible!" he said in a hushed voice, "how appallingly terrible! He says she is marrying Steppe! That can't be true, either. It would be grotesque—"
She was on the point of telling him that the marriage was due for the second day, when he went abruptly into his room. He returned, carrying his overcoat, which he put on as he talked.
"The past can only be patched," he said, "and seldom patched to look like new. Omar crystallizes its irrevocability in his great stanza. We can no more 'shatter it to bits,' than 'remould it nearer to our heart's desire.'"
"Ronnie, Beryl is to be married the day after tomorrow."
"Indeed?"
He looked at her with a half smile and then at the clock. It was a minute past midnight.
"Tomorrow?"
She nodded.
"Where are you going?"
"To see Talbot. He acted according to his lights. You can't expect a cockerel to sing like a lark. There is no sense in getting angry because things do not behave unnaturally. I made him feel very badly toward me yesterday. I think he can be adjusted. Some problems can be solved: some must be scrapped. Have you a car—Beryl's—good. Will you drop me in Curzon Street?"
She asked him no further questions and when in the car he held her hand in his, she felt beautifully peaceful and content.
"Good night, Christina. I will see Beryl tomorrow."
He closed the car door softly and she saw him knocking at No. 703 as she drove away.
The door was opened almost immediately.
"Is Mr. Talbot in, Brien?"
The butler stared.
"Why—why, yes, Mr. Morelle," he stammered.
He had not waited at table these past two days without discovering that Ronald Morelle was a name to be mentioned to the accompaniment of blasphemous et ceteras.
"He is in bed. I was just locking up. Does he expect you, Mr. Morelle?"
"No," said Ronnie. "All right, Brien, I know my way up."
He left an apprehensive servant standing irresolutely in the hall.
Jeremiah was not in bed. He was in his dressing gown before a mirror and his face was mottled with patches of gray mud—a cosmetic designed to remove wrinkles from tired eyes.
Ronnie he saw reflected in the mirror.
"What—what the devil do you want?" he demanded hollowly. "What are you doing?"
"Locking the door," said Ronnie, and threw the key on to the pillow of a four-poster bed.
"Damn you—open that door—you sneaking cad!"
Mr. Talbot experienced a difficulty in breathing, his voice was a little beyond his control. Also the plaster at the corner of his mouth made articulation difficult.
"I've come to see you on rather a pressing matter," said Ronnie evenly. "You wrote a letter to Dr. Merville making a very serious charge against my friend, Miss Merville. I do not complain and I certainly do not intend abusing you. I may kill you: that is very likely. I hope it will not be necessary. If you shout or make a noise, I shall certainly kill you, because, as you will see, being an intelligent man, I cannot afford to let you live until your servants come."
Mr. Talbot sat down suddenly, a comical figure, the more so since the dried mud about his eyes and the corner of his mouth made it impossible that he should express his intense fear. As it was, he spoke with difficulty and without opening his mouth wider than the mud allowed.
"You shall pay for thish, Morelle—vy God!"
"I want you to write me a letter which I shall give to Miss Merville apologizing for your insulting note to the doctor—"
With a gurgle of rage, Talbot sprang at him. Ronnie half turned and struck twice.
The butler heard the thud of a falling body; it shook the house. Still he hesitated.
"Get up," said Ronnie. "I am afraid I have dislocated your beauty spots, Jerry, but you'll be able to talk more freely."
Mr. Talbot nursed his jaw, but continued to sit on the floor. His jaw was aching and his head was going round and round. But he was an intelligent man.
When he did get up he opened a writing bureau and, at Ronnie's dictation, wrote.
"Thank you, Jerry," Ronnie pocketed the letter. "Perhaps when I have gone you will regret having written and will complain to the police; you may even write a worse letter to the doctor—who hasn't seen your first epistle, by the way. I must risk that. If you do, I shall certainly destroy you. I shall be sorry because—well, because I don't think you deserve death. You can be adjusted. Most people can. Will you put a stamp on the envelope, Jerry?"
At the street door: "Perhaps you will lose your job because you have admitted me, Brien. If that happens, will you come to me, please?"
The dazed butler said he would.
Ronnie stopped at a pillar box to post the letter and walked home.
Jan Steppe was an early riser. He was up at six; at seven o'clock he was at his desk with the contents of the morning newspapers completely digested. By the time most people were sleepily inquiring the state of the weather, he had dealt with his correspondence and had prepared his daily plan.
In view of his early departure from London he had cleared off such arrears of work as there was. It was very little, for his method did not admit of an accumulation of unsettled affairs. A man not easily troubled, he had been of late considerably perturbed by the erratic behavior of certain stocks. He had every reason to be satisfied on the whole, because a miracle had happened. Klein River Diamonds had soared to an unbelievable price. A new pipe had been discovered on the property and the shares had jumped to one hundred and twelve, which would have been a fortunate development for Dr. Merville who once held a large parcel, had not Steppe purchased his entire holding at fifteen. He did this before the news was made public that the pipe had been located. Before Steppe himself knew—as he swore, sitting within a yard of the code telegram from his South African agent that had brought him the news twenty-four hours before it was published. So that the doctor was in this position: he owed money to Steppe for shares which had made Steppe a profit.
Ronnie had had a large holding. He was deputy chairman of the company. The day following the execution of Ambrose Sault, Steppe sent him a peremptory note enclosing a transfer and a cheque. Ronnie put cheque and transfer away in a drawer and did not read the letter. For some extraordinary reason on that day he could not read easily. Letters frightened him and he had to summon all his will power to examine them. Nearly a week passed before he got over this strange repugnance to the written word.
In the meantime Jan Steppe had not seen his lieutenant. He never doubted that the transfer, signed and sealed, was registered in the books of the company. Ronnie was obedient: had signed transfers by the score without question.
On this morning of March, Mr. Steppe was delayed in the conduct of his business by the tardy arrival of the mail. There had been a heavy fog in the early hours and letter distribution had been delayed, so that it was well after half-past eight before the mail came to him.
Almost the first letter he opened was one from the secretary of Klein River. He read and growled. The writer was sorry that he could not carry out the definite instructions which he had received. Apparently Mr. Steppe was under a misapprehension. No shares held by Mr. Morelle had been transferred. There was a postscript in the secretary's handwriting:
"I have reason to believe that Mr. Morelle has been selling your stocks very heavily. He is certainly the principal operator in the attack upon Midwell Tractions which you complained about yesterday."
Jan Steppe, dropping the letter, pushed his chair back from the desk. A thousand shares in Klein River were at issue, he could not afford to tear bullheaded at Ronnie Morelle. So this was the bear—the seller of stock! Ronnie had done something like this before, and had been warned. Steppe let his fury cool before he got Merville on the wire. When, in answer to the summons, Merville arrived, Steppe was pacing the floor, his hands deep in his trousers pockets.
"Huh, Merville? Seen Ronald Morelle lately?"
"No: he hasn't been to the house for a very long time."
"Hasn't, huh? Like him?"
The doctor hesitated.
"Not particularly: he is a distant cousin of mine. You know that."
Steppe nodded. He was holding himself in check and the effort was a strain.
"He's selling Midwell Tractions: you know that?" he mimicked savagely. "I'll break him, Merville! Smash him! The cur, the crafty cur!"
He gained the upper hand of his tumultuous rage after a while.
"That doesn't matter. But I sent him a cheque and a transfer—one minute!"
He seized the telephone and shouted a number.
"Yes, Steppe. Has a cheque been passed through payable to Ronald Morelle—I'll give you the number if you wait."
He jerked out a drawer, found the stub of a cheque book and turned the counterfoil.
"There? March seventeenth. Cheque number L.V. 971842."
He waited at the telephone, scowling absentmindedly at the doctor.
"Huh? It hasn't been presented—all right."
He smashed the receiver down on the hook.
"If he had paid in the cheque I would have got him—the swine! But he hasn't. I sent orders to transfer his Klein Rivers. I thought I was doing him a good turn—just as I thought I was doing one for you, Merville."
"And he refused to allow you to make the sacrifice," said the doctor drily.
"I don't like that kind of talk, Merville," Steppe's face was dark with anger. "I want you to come with me. I'm going to see this—this thing. And I'm going to get the transfer! Make no mistake about that! Call up the filthy hound and tell him you are coming round. Don't mention me. It will give him a chance of getting rid of his women."
He listened to the telephone conversation that followed.
"What was he saying?"
"He asked me if there was anything wrong. It struck me that he was anxious—he asked me twice."
"That fellow has an instinct for trouble," said Steppe.
Ronnie was dressed, which was unusual for him, at this early hour. And the doctor noticed, could hardly help noticing, that the library was gay with flowers. This also was remarkable, for Ronnie disliked to have flowers in a room. There were daffodils,pierce-niege, bowls of violets, and through the open casement with its curtains fluttering in the stiff breeze, Merville saw new window boxes ablaze with tulips.
"You're admiring my flowers, Bertram," smiled Ronnie. "I had to buy them ready-grown and the gentleman who owns the flat has misgivings as to the wisdom of flower boxes—he thinks they may fall on to somebody's head. Good morning, Steppe, you look happy."
Mr. Steppe was looking and feeling quite the reverse. He forced his face into a contortion intended to be a smile.
"Good morning, Ronnie. I thought I'd come along and see you about the transfer I sent to you. You forgot to fill it up."
"Did I?" Ronnie was genuinely surprised. "I remember I had a letter from you—"
He took a heap of papers from a drawer and as he turned them over, Steppe's eyes lit up.
"That's it," he said, and offhandedly, "put your name against the seal."
Ronnie took up a pen—and paused.
"I am transferring a thousand shares in the Klein River Diamond Mining Corporation—at twelve. They are worth more than that surely? I thought I saw them quoted at a hundred and something?"
"They were twelve when I sent you the transfer," said Steppe.
"Why did you send it? I don't remember expressing a wish to sell."
Here Steppe made a fatal mistake. He had but to say, "You agreed to sell," and Ronnie would have signed. There were some incidents in his past life that he could not remember. But the temper of the big man got the better of him.
"You're not expected to ask!" he roared, bringing his big fist down on the table with a crash. "You're expected to do as you're told! Get that, Morelle! I sent you the transfer and a cheque—"
"This must be the cheque," said Ronnie. He looked at the oblong slip and tore it into four pieces before he dropped the scraps into the waste basket.
Steppe was purple with rage, inarticulate.
Then the transfer followed the cheque.
"Don't let us have a scene," said Dr. Merville nervously. "You must meet Steppe in this, Ronnie."
"I'll meet him with pleasure. I have a thousand shares apparently; he wants them—good! He can pay me the market price."
"You dog!" howled Steppe, his face thrust across the table until it was within a few inches of Ronnie's, "you damned swindler! You're going straight to the office of the Klein River Company and sign another transfer. D'ye hear?"
"How could I not hear," said Ronnie, getting up, "as to signing the transfer, I will do so, on terms—if you are civil."
"If I'm civil, huh? If I'm civil! I'll break you, Morelle! I'll break you! There's a little document in my safe that would get you five years. That makes you look foolish!"
"Take it out of your safe," said Ronnie coolly, "which I understand the police have. They will be glad to see it opened. I could open it myself if—if I could only remember. I've tried. When I saw a paragraph in the paper about Moropulos, it made me shiver—because I knew I could open the safe. I sat up all one night trying to get the word."
"You're a liar—the same damned liar that you've always been! I want that transfer, Morelle. I'm through with you—after your appearance in the police court. You're a damned fine asset to a company! You and your Lola! You will resign from the board of my companies. Get that! And whilst I'm dealing with you, I'd like to tell you that if you attack my stocks, I'll attack you in a way that will make hell a cosy corner, huh?"
His hand shot out and he gripped Ronnie.
"Come here—you! D'ye hear me. I'll—"
Ronnie took the hand that grasped his collar and pried loose the fingers; he did this without apparent effort. The fingers had to release their hold or be broken. Then with a twist of his wrist he flung the hand away.
"Don't do that, please," he said calmly.
Steppe stood panting, grimacing—afraid. Merville felt the fear before he saw its evidence.
"How did you do that?" panted Steppe. It was the resentful curiosity of the beaten animal.
Ronnie opened his mouth and laughed long and joyously. He was, thought the doctor, like a boy conjuror who had mystified his elders and was enjoying the joke of it. Then, without warning, he became serious again and pressed a bell on his table.
"François, open the door—must you go, Bertram? I wanted to see you rather pressingly. Steppe can find his way home, can't you, Steppe? One can't imagine him getting lost—and he can ask a policeman."
"I'll settle with you later, Morelle. Come on, Merville."
The doctor vacillated.
"Come on!" roared Steppe.
"I'll see you this afternoon. I have an engagement now."
Merville went hastily after the big man. Ronnie followed, overtaking them as they were getting into the elevator.
"Will you tell Beryl that I am coming to see her tonight?"
"She'll not see you!" exploded Steppe, "no decent woman would see you—"
"What an ape you are!" said Ronnie reproachfully, "don't you realize that I'm not talking to you?"
Jan Steppe's solitary lunch was served at midday, an hour which ensured his solitude, for he was a man who liked his meals alone. He was nearing the finish of his repast, his enormous appetite unimpaired by his unhappy experience of the morning, when two men mounted the steps of his Berkeley Square residence. They were unknown to one another; one had walked, the other had descended from a taxi, and they stood aside politely.
"You are first, sir," said the taller and healthier of the two.
Their cards went in to Jan Steppe together. He saw the tall man first, jumping up from the table and wiping his fingers on his serviette.
"In the library, huh?"
He looked at himself in the glass, pulled his cravat straight, and smoothed his black hair before he made his way to where the tall man, hat in hand, was waiting his pleasure.
"Well, inspector, what do you want?"
Steppe jerked open the lid of a box and presented its contents for approval.
"Thank you, sir," the inspector of police chose a cigar with care. "It is about this Traction Company of your friend's—I think I remember you saying that you were not in the flotation yourself?"
"No—I bought shares. I have a large number. What about it?"
"Well, sir," said the inspector, speaking slowly, "I am afraid that matters are very serious—very serious indeed. The Public Prosecutor has taken action and a warrant has been issued."
Steppe was prepared for this.
"Have you the warrant?"
The officer nodded.
"Can it be put off until tomorrow?"
"Absolutely impossible, sir. The best I can do is to defer its execution until late tonight. Even then I am taking a risk."
Steppe tugged at his little beard.
"Make it tonight," he said, "I'll undertake that he doesn't leave the country—you won't let him know, of course?"
"No, sir."
If Steppe had offered as much money as he could command to secure the escape of his victim, the bribe would have been rejected. But a postponement of arrest—that was another matter.
"Thank you, inspector."
"Thank you, sir; I shall put a couple of men on to watch him. I must do that, he will never know."
Steppe went back to the dining room very much occupied.
"No, I can't see anybody else—order the car. Who is he?"
He took up the second card.
"Mr. Jeremiah Talbot."
The man who was concerned in the case where Ronald Morelle had figured so ingloriously. Perhaps he could tell him something about Ronnie? Something to his further discredit.
"Bring him in," and when the dapper Mr. Talbot appeared: "I can give you two minutes, Mr.—er—Talbot."
"I've come from a sense of duty," began the injured Jeremiah. "I'm certainly not going to be intimidated by threats from a beast like Ronald Morelle—"
Steppe cut him short.
"Is it about Ronald Morelle? I haven't time to go into your quarrels."
"It is about Ronnie—and Beryl Merville."
Jan Steppe gazed at the man moodily, then into the fire—then back to Jeremiah Talbot.
"Sit down," he said. "Now—"
Talbot told his story plainly and without trimmings, save that his hatred of Ronnie led him to digress from time to time.
"You saw; you are certain?"
"Absolutely, I ran down the stairs. There was a fellow taking photographs outside, a man with a brown beard—"
Moropulos! And the photograph was that of Beryl Merville!
"Go on."
"That is all. I felt it my duty to tell you. If Ronald Morelle attempts to browbeat me, I'll give him in charge—"
"All right—you can go. Thank you."
Jan Steppe had his own peculiar views on women in general, the relationship of Beryl with Ronnie Morelle in particular. Things of that kind happened. He had thought some such affair was possible, and was neither shocked nor outraged. Beryl did not love him, he knew: she loved Morelle. He grinned wickedly.
"The car, sir."
His first call was at the registrar's office. The special license had been secured a week before.
"I can marry you at half-past two," said the registrar, "we like a day's notice, but in an exceptional case—"
Steppe paid.
The Mervilles had not gone in to lunch when he arrived. Beryl was in her room, the doctor working in his study. Steppe wondered what he was working at.
"I want to see Miss Merville—don't disturb the doctor."
She came down, a listless, hopeless girl. Intuitively she knew that he had been told. What would he do: she stopped at the door of her father's study, fighting her fear. Should she tell him first? In the end she came to Steppe.
"Well, Beryl. What is this I hear about Ronald Morelle and you, huh?"
"What have you heard?"
"That you've been his mistress—that's what I've heard. Damned fine news for a bridegroom, huh? Does your father know?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want him to know?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care, huh? Got that way now, so that you don't care. You'll marry me this afternoon."
She looked up.
"This afternoon?"
"Yuh. You'd better tell the doctor; you can tell him anything else you like about Morelle—but if you don't tell, I won't."
Her hand had gone up to her cheek.
"This afternoon—I can't—give me a day—you said it would be tomorrow. I'm not ready."
"This afternoon at half past two. Will you tell the doctor, or shall I?"
She was trying to think.
"I'll tell him. As you wish. This afternoon."
Lunch went into the dining room. Nobody touched food. Steppe had to return to the house to get the wedding ring, send telegrams changing the date of his arrival in Paris, settle such minor details of household management as the change necessitated.
He was at the registrar's office when they came, Dr. Merville and the white-faced girl. In a cab behind the doctor's car travelled two Scotland Yard detectives.
The ceremony was simple. The repetition of a few sentences and Beryl Merville became Beryl Van Steppe. She did not know that his name was Van Steppe until she saw the marriage certificate.
"You can go home with your father. Be ready to leave by the boat train tonight."
So he dismissed her. All the way back to the house the doctor was talking, cheerfully, helpfully. She did not hear him. She was looking at the broad gold ring on her finger.
As they were entering the house her father leaned back, and scrutinized the street.
"I'm sure I've seen those two men before—weren't they waiting outside the registrar's, Beryl?"
Beryl had seen only one man. A man with a black beard, a broad, swarthy face and two eyes wherein burned the fires of hell.
Evie brought the news at a run. She had been shopping with Teddy—the store had given her a holiday, and there was some talk of subscribing for a wedding present.
"I said to Teddy, 'let's stop and see who it is'—we knew it was somebody swagger by the two cars and the cab outside the door. And then I thought that I knew one of the cars. I said, 'Teddy, I'll bet it is Beryl Merville'—and it was!"
Christina was pale.
"She wasn't to be married until tomorrow," she insisted.
"Well, she's married. My dear, she looked awful. Teddy says—"
"Oh, damn Teddy!" snapped Christina and was sorry. "I don't mean that, but I'm so used to damning your young men that I can't get out of the habit. Did they go away together—Steppe and she?"
"No—she's gone back to the house with her father. Steppe—is he a man with black whiskers—well, he went alone."
Christina kicked off her slippers determinedly.
"I'm going to see her," she said.
"What do you think you can do?" asked the scornful Evie. "Take my advice, Christina, never interfere between man and wife. Teddy says—"
"I repeat anything I have already said about Teddy," remarked Christina. "Chuck over my shoes, Evie."
She could not tell Beryl. She could tell nobody. Ronnie Morelle must be interpreted by those who saw.
She strode out thanking God for life, and Ambrose Sault for the tingle of her soles upon the pavement. Spring was in the air, the park trees were studded with emerald buttons; some impatient bushes had even come fully into leaf before the season had begun. The sky was blue and carried white and majestic clouds; the birds were chattering noisily above her as she came through the park and the earth smelled good, as it only smells in spring when the awakening of life within its bosom releases a million peculiar odors that combine in one fragrant nidor.
To Beryl's eyes the girl, with her peaked face and her flaming hair, was a vision of radiance.
"So good of you—" Beryl was on the verge of a breakdown as Christina Colebrook put her arms about her shoulders. "So lovely of you, Christina—I wanted to see you. I hadn't the energy to move—or the heart."
"Why today?"
"Steppe knows everything. He insisted upon today. As well today as tomorrow. I am troubled about father. I feel that something dreadful is going to happen. He is so restless and he has asked John Maxton to come; John was a great friend of my mother's. In a way I'm almost glad that there is this other trouble hanging over us—that sounds cruel to poor daddy, but it does distract me from—thoughts."
"What is this other trouble?"
But Beryl shook her head.
"I don't know. There has been some unpleasantness about a company father floated. Jan Steppe did it really, father is only a figurehead. He has had people to see him, people from the Public Prosecutor's office. He doesn't talk much about it to me, but I have a premonition that all is not well. But, Christina, I'm just whining and whining at you, poor girl!"
"Whine," said Christina. "Go on whining.Ishould scream! Beryl, my love, you have to do something for me, something to relieve my heart of a great unhappiness. I intended seeing you today—you had my letter?—well, I'm too late to stop you marrying. I thought I would be in time; but not too late to save your immortal soul."
"What—?"
"Wait. I want you to promise me, by the man we hold mutually sacred, that you will do as I ask. No matter at what inconvenience or danger."
"I will do anything you ask," said Beryl quietly.
"What time do you meet this Steppe?"
"I call for him at eight o'clock. The boat train leaves at nine-thirty."
"At eight o'clock you will go to Ronnie Morelle."
"No, no! I can't do that—"
"You promised. You will see him: go to his flat and see him. Tell him you are married. Tell him the truth, that you are going away with a man you hate. Tell him that Steppe knows."
"I can't! You don't know what you're asking, Christina, I've—begged Ronnie before—begged him to run away with me. I can't do that again. It is impossible."
"You need beg nothing—nothing. Just tell him."
She caught the girl to her.
"Beryl, you're going to do what I ask you, dear?"
"Yes—you wouldn't ask me—"
"Out of caprice," finished Christina, "or cussedness, or a wish to try experiments. No. But you must go, Beryl. I—I think I should kill myself if you didn't."
"Christina! What do you mean?"
"I mean it is life to go and death not to go!" said Christina, with a sort of ferocity that staggered her companion. "That is what I mean." In a quieter tone: "Have you seen Ronald lately?"
Beryl shook her head.
"No. I saw him that night—the night they killed Ambrose—oh—"
"Don't gulp," warned Christina.
"I'm not gulping. I'm yearning. I saw him yearning once, the dear, I am trying to find some of his strength now. It is a little difficult."
On the way home Christina dropped into a telephone booth and paid three precious pennies.
"Ronnie! Christina speaking. Beryl is coming to see you tonight. At eight. Wait for her—don't dare to be out."
She cut off before he could ask questions.
Sir John Maxton stayed to dinner. Beryl did not put in an appearance until just before eight.
"Already, Beryl?"
Dr. Merville scrambled up. His face was gray, his eyes sunken, the hands that took her by the shoulders shook.
"My dear—I hope I have done right. I hope I have done right, my little girl."
She tried to smile as she kissed him.
"Can't I take you to Berkeley Square, Beryl?" asked Sir John.
She shook her head.
"No, thank you, John—goodbye."
They stood together, bareheaded, on the pavement, and saw her go. A drizzle of rain was falling, the dull red furnace glow of London was in the sky.
Together they walked back to the dining room and Maxton did not break in upon the doctor's thoughts.
"Thank God she's gone," he whispered at last, "John, I'm at the end, I know it. Perhaps he'll help after—I'll be satisfied if he makes Beryl happy."
"He could help now," said John Maxton. "Why do you deceive yourself? How can you hope for anything from Steppe? I wish to God I had known that this infernal marriage was for today."
"She wished it," said the doctor, "I should not have insisted, but she wished it. Steppe isn't a bad fellow—"
"Steppe is a scoundrel and nobody knows that better than yourself. Why are you in any danger from the law? Because you copied a draft prospectus which Steppe drew up and issued it in your own name. Steppe has only to appear as a witness and tell the truth, and he would find himself in your place—supposing this comes to a prosecution. But he won't. He could have saved—"
He stopped.
"Ambrose Sault?"
"He could have saved the body of Ambrose Sault from annihilation by a word! The draft of the prospectus is in existence. It is in the safe that Sault made. Steppe could open it and ninety-nine hundredths of your responsibility would be wiped out. But he won't risk his own skin."
"You think they will prosecute, John?"
Maxton considered. There was nothing to be gained by evasion.
"I am sure they will," he said quietly, "if I were the Public Prosecutor I should apply for a warrant on the facts as I know them."
The door opened.
"Will you see two gentlemen from Whitehall?" the maid asked.
It was Maxton who nodded.
"Bertram—you have to meet this ordeal—courageously."
The doctor got up as the detectives entered.
"I am Detective Inspector Lord, from Scotland Yard," said the first of them, "you are Dr. Bertram Merville? I have to take you into custody on a charge of misrepresentation under the Companies Act."
"Very good," said Dr. Merville, "may I go to my room for a moment?"
"No sir," said the inspector. "I understand you keep a medicine chest in your room."
Maxton nodded approvingly.
He did not go to the police station with the prisoner. He went in search of Beryl—and Jan Steppe.