Ronald Morelle on the hearthrug before his electric radiator watched the fiery little wave that moved along the surface of the element.
In such moments of complete detachment, when his mind was free from the encumbrance of active thought, he received strange impressions. They were not memories, he told himself, any more than are those faces which grow and fade in the darkness just between sleeping and waking. They were whisps of dreams that were born and dissolved in a fraction of time. He had seen such clouds grow instantly above the lake of Geneva, and watching them from the terraces of Caux, had of a sudden missed them, even as he watched.
So these impressions appeared and vanished. There was one that was distinct and more frequent than any other. It was of a hut, long and narrow. Two broad sloping benches ran down each side and these, at night, were packed with sleeping men. The door to the hut was very solid and was locked by a soldier—he could sometimes hear the swish of the soldier's boots as he paced the gravel path surrounding the hut. Once a man had died—Ronnie helped to carry him out. It was a plague that had struck the island—island? Yes, it was an island, in the tropics, for the nights were very hot and the plants luxurious.
"There is a ring—will M'sieur require me?"
"Yes, stay, François."
Ronnie jumped up and dusted his trousers. Another second, and he was halfway across the room.
"I'm so glad that I came, Ronnie: it wasn't that Christina insisted: I wanted to see you, dear."
How pale, how ill she looked, he thought, with a sinking heart. She was going away somewhere, for she was dressed for travelling.
"Beryl, my dear, you are not well?"
"Oh, I'm well enough, Ronnie," she glanced back at the door. She expected that any moment Steppe would come—he would guess. There was a train to be caught too—the madness of this visit!
He held both her hands in his.
"Beryl, they tell me you are going to be married—that isn't right, Beryl, is it?"
She nodded.
"But Beryl—" he stopped. "I saw you once and I was cruel, wasn't I?"
"What is the use of talking about it? Ronnie, I hope you are going to be a better man than you have been. I admire you so much for defending that poor girl. You are trying to be different now."
"I think so."
"And—I'm believing you, Ronnie. It is not easy to give up that life? Won't you want to go back to it again?"
He smiled.
"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes, with a stroke, yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep."
She looked at him fearfully.
"Ronnie, how solemn you are—and you are so strong too—I feel it. Ronnie, I am married!"
He bent his head as though he had not heard her.
"I was married today to Steppe. Oh God, it is awful, Ronnie, awful!"
He put his arm about her and kissed the tearful face, and then—
Crash!
The door shook again.
"I think that is your husband," said Ronnie gently, "will you go into my room?"
He opened the door for her and said "yes" with his eyes to the alarmed François.
Steppe flung himself into the room. In his great fur-collared coat he looked a giant of a man.
"Well?" said Ronnie.
"Where's my wife!" The man's voice vibrated. "You swine! Where is my wife—she's come here—I know, to her damned paramour. Where is she?" he bellowed.
"She is in my room—" said Ronnie, and Jan Steppe staggered back as if he were shot.
"In your room!" He sounded as if he were being strangled. "Well—now she can come to my room! You called me an ape this morning, I'll show you what kind of an ape I can be! Beryl!" he roared.
She came out, a tragic figure of despair.
"So you had to come and see him, eh—"
François had opened the door again, and a man came in unannounced.
"Steppe!"
It was John Maxton, and Steppe turned with a snarl.
"Merville has been arrested."
"Well?"
"My father! Arrested? Jan, I must go back—"
"You'll go with me, huh! I haven't married your father or your lover, either."
"What are you going to do?" demanded Maxton sternly.
"Catch my train! You can't stop me—"
"Steppe, for God's sake think what you're doing." Sir John Maxton was pleading now with a greater intensity than he had ever pleaded before a tribunal. "You could save Merville—you have the draft of the prospectus—"
"In the safe! In the safe!" roared Steppe his face inflamed with fury. "Come, Beryl."
He held out his hand, but she shrank back behind Ronnie.
"Then open the safe," demanded Maxton.
"Go to hell! All of you—don't stand up to me, Morelle, or I'll kill you! Beryl—"
"What is the word—this combination word, Steppe? You can get away tonight, they will find nothing until the morning—"
"I won't tell you, damn you! I'll see you—"
"Judas!"
Ronnie Morelle stood, his finger outstretched stiffly pointing at the other.
"Judas—J—U—D—A—S. That is the word!"
Open-mouthed Steppe lurched toward him.
"You—you." He struck, but his blow went wide and then Ronnie had him by the shoulders and they looked into one another's eyes.
Beryl, horrified, sick with fear, saw her husband's face go livid, saw him grimace painfully, monstrously.
"I know you—!" he screamed. "I know you! You're Sault! Ambrose Sault!—you're dead! They hanged you, blast you! Ambrose Sault—" He put out his huge hands as to ward off a ghastly sight.
"Come along, Beryl," he mumbled, "you mustn't stay here—it is Sault. Oh, Christ—"
He went down in a heap.
Beryl came forward groping like one blind.
"Ronnie——" She stared into his eyes, and in his agitation he put his knuckle to his chin. "—oh, my dear!"
"Personally," said Evie, "I think she should have waited six months. After all, Christina, even if her father was acquitted, thereisa scandal. I admit she was a wife in name only, as the pictures say, but shewasMrs. Steppe. Teddy quite agrees with me: he says that it isn't decent to marry within a week of your husband's death. Don't think I'm hurt about Ronnie getting married, I wouldn't be so small. It is the principle of the thing."
Christina's mouth was bulging: Ronnie had sent her imposing quantities of candy.
"Pass me that book about Beaulieu that you're sitting on, and don't talk so much," she said. "You're a jealous cat."
"I'm not, I declare I'm not. I like Ronnie I admit, but there was something lacking in him—soul, that's what it was, soul!"
"Did Ambrose Sault have soul?"
"Why—yes, I always thought he had soul."
"Then shut up!" said Christina, opening her book.
THE END
A KING BY NIGHTANGEL, ESQUIRECAPTAINS OF SOULSDIANA OF THE KARA-KARADOUBLE DANGREEN RUSTJACK O' JUDGMENTKATE PLUSROOM 13TAM O' THE SCOOTSTERROR KEEPTHE ANGEL OF TERRORTHE BLACK ABBOTTHE CLUE OF THE NEW PINTHE CLUE OF THE TWISTED CANDLETHE CRIMSON CIRCLETHE DAFFODIL MURDERTHE DOOR WITH SEVEN LOCKSTHE FACE IN THE NIGHTTHE FOUR JUST MENTHE GIRL FROM SCOTLAND YARDTHE GREEN ARCHERTHE HAIRY ARMTHE MAN WHO KNEWTHE MIND OF MR. J. G. REEDERTHE MISSING MILLIONTHE OTHER MANTHE RINGERTHE SECRET HOUSETHE SINISTER MANTHE SQUEALERTHE STRANGE COUNTESSTHE TERRIBLE PEOPLETHE TRAITORS' GATETHE VALLEY OF GHOSTS