Mr. Ronald Morelle's flat was on the third floor of a block that
faced busy Knightsbridge. His library was a large and airy room at
the back and from the open casements commanded an uninterrupted view
of the park. It was a pleasant room with its rows of bookshelves and
its chintzes. The silver fireplace and the rich Persian rugs which
covered the parquet were the only suggestions of luxury. There were
one or two pictures which François had an order to remove when
certain visitors were expected. The rest were decent reproductions
with the exception of a large oil painting above the mantelpiece. It
was a St. Anthony and was attributed to Titiano Vecellio. The
austere saint loomed darkly from a sombre background and was
represented as an effeminate youth; the veining of the neck and
shoulders was characteristically Titian, so too was the inclination
of a marble column which showed faintly in the picture. Titiano's
inability to draw a true vertical line is well known and upon this
column, more than upon other evidence, the experts accepted the
picture as an early example of the fortunate painter's work.
Ronnie was indifferent as to the authenticity of the picture. The
dawning carnality on Anthony's lean face, the misty shape of the
temptress--Titian or his disciple had reduced to visibility the
doubt, the gloating and the very thoughts of the Saint.
A black oak table stood in the center of the room and a deep Medici
writing chair was placed opposite the black blotting-pad. It pleased
Ronnie to imitate those ministers of state who employed this color to
thwart curious-minded servants who, with the aid of a mirror, might
discover the gist of outward correspondence.
It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie's key in the lock
sent his sleepy servant into the lobby. Ronnie stood in the hall
tenderly stripping his gloves. "Has anybody been?"
"No, m'sieur."
"Letters?"
"Only one, m'sieur. An account."
He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in. He switched on the
light of his desk lamp and sat down. "I have not been out all the
evening, François."
"No, m'sieur."
"I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, do you
understand?"
"Perfectly, m'sieur."
"Have we any iodine--look for it, damn you, don't gape!"
François hurried out to inspect the contents of the bathroom locker,
where were stored such first aid remedies as were kept in the flat.
Ronnie looked at his hand and pulled back the cuff of his coat; three
ugly red scratches ran from the wrist to the base of the middle
fingers. His lips pursed angrily. "Little beast," he said. "Well?"
"There is a bottle--would m'sieur like a bandage?"
"It is not necessary--have you a cat in the flat?--no, well get one
tomorrow. You need not keep it permanently. I don't think there
will be any trouble. Bring me a hand-mirror from my
dressing-table--hurry."
He lifted the shade from the table lamp and, in the mirror, examined
his face carefully. His right cheek was red, he imagined
finger-marks, but the fine skin had not been torn.
"I have had a quarrel with a lady, François. A common girl--I do not
think she will make any further trouble, but if she does--she does
not know me anyway."
Ronald's love-making had ended unpleasantly, and he had left the dark
aisles of the park in a hurry, before the scream of a frightened girl
had brought the police to the spot.
"I was expecting m'sieur to telephone me saying that I might go
home," said François. He lodged in Kensington, and sometimes it was
convenient for Ronnie, that he should go home early. Two women came
in the morning to clean the flat and he usually arrived in time to
carry in his master's breakfast from the restaurant attached to the
building.
"No, I didn't telephone. Take this glass back and bring me the
evening newspapers. That is all. You can clear out."
When the front door closed upon his valet, Ronnie got up and, walking
to the window, pulled aside the curtains. The casement was open and
he sat down on the padded window-seat, looking out into the darkness.
He was not thinking of his night's adventure, being something of a
philosopher. The sordidness and the vulgarity of it, would not
distress him in any circumstances. He was thinking of Beryl and what
John Maxton had said. He knew that she liked him, but he had made no
special effort to foster her affection or to evolve from their
relationship one more intimate. By his code, she was taboo;
lovemaking with Beryl could only lead to marriage, and matrimony was
outside of his precarious plans. It pleased him to ponder upon
Beryl--perhaps she was in love with him. He had not considered the
possibility before. That women only differed by the hats they wore
was a working rule of his; but it was strange that the influence he
exercised was common to girls so widely separated by birth, education
and taste as Beryl was from Evie Colebrook--and others.
Self-disparagement was the last weakness to be expected in Ronald
Morelle, and yet, it was true to say that he had restricted his
hunting for so long to one variety of game, that he doubted his
ability to follow another.
His father had been an enthusiastic hawker, one of the remaining few
who followed the sport of kings, and Ronnie invariably thought of his
adventuring in terms of falconry. He was a hawk, enseamed, a hawk
that swung on its rigid sails, waiting on until the quarry was
sprung. Sometimes the quarry was not taken without talons to rend
and tear at the embarrassed falcon--he felt the wounds on his hand
gingerly. But a trained hawk respects the domestic fowl, even the
folk of the dovecot may coo at peace whilst he waits on in the sky.
Beryl--? She was certainly lovely. Her figure was delectable. And
her mouth, red and full--a Rossetti woman should not have such lips.
Was it Rossetti who painted those delicately featured women? He got
up and found a big portfolio filled with prints. Yes, it was
Rossetti, but Beryl's figure was incomparably more delicious than any
woman's that the painter had drawn. He came back to the window,
staring out into the night, until, in the gray of dawn, the outline
of trees emerged from the void. Then he went to bed and to sleep.
He did not move for five hours and then he woke with a horrible sense
of desolation. He blinked round the room and at that instant the
clock of a church began to strike--the quarters sounded--a pause.
"Toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll." Nine
o'clock! With a scream of fear he leaped out of bed, sweating,
panic-stricken, forlorn. Nine o'clock! "No--no--Christ--no!"
François, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in.
"M'sieur," he gasped.
Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his hands.
"A nightmare, François--a nightmare--get out, blast you!" But he had
had no nightmare, could recall nothing of dreams, though he strove
all day, his head throbbing. Only he knew that to hear nine o'clock
striking had seemed very dreadful.