IX

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.

X

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 cases _finis_ had 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?"