Sometimes the brain plays a trick upon you. In the midst of your
everyday life you have a vivid yet elusive recollection of a past
which is strange to you. You see yourself in circumstances and in a
setting wholly unfamiliar. Like a flash it comes and goes; as
swiftly as the shutter of a camera falls. Flick! It is gone and you
can recall no incident upon which you can reconstruct the vision of
the time-fraction. Beryl saw herself as she had been before she came
upon a shabby gray-haired man studying the wallpaper in the hall of
Dr. Merville's house. Yet she could never fix an impression. If the
change of her outlook had been gradual, she might have traced back
step by step. But it had been violent: catastrophic. And this
bewildering truth appeared: that there had been no change so far as
Ronnie was concerned. He had not altered in any degree her aspect of
life. It worried her that it should be so. But there it was.
She had a wire from her father the next morning to say that he was
returning at once. Dr. Merville had seen certain comments in the
newspaper and was taking the next train to Paris.
She did not go to the station to meet him and was not in the house
when he arrived. Even in the days that followed she saw little of
him, for he seemed to have pressing business which kept him either at
Steppe's office or Steppe's house. One night she went to dinner
there. It was a meal remarkable for one circumstance. Although
Sault was coming up for trial the following week, they did not speak
of him. It was as though he were already passed from the world. She
was tempted once to raise his name, but refrained. Discussion would
be profitless, for they would only expose the old platitudes and
present the conventional gestures.
In the car as they drove home the doctor was spuriously cheerful.
His lighter manner generally amused Beryl; now her suspicions were
aroused, for of late, her father's laborious good humor generally
preceded a request for some concession on her part.
It was not until she was saying good night that he revealed the
nature of his request.
"Don't you think it would be a good idea if you cut your engagement
as short as possible, dear?" he asked with an effort to appear
casual. "Steppe doesn't want a big wedding--one before the civil
authorities with a few close friends to lunch afterwards--"
"You mean he wants to marry at once?"
"Well--not at once, but--er--er--in a week or so. Personally, I
think it is an excellent scheme. Say in a month--"
"No, no!" she was vehement in her objection, "not in a month. I must
have more time. I'm very sorry, father, if I am upsetting your
plans."
"Not at all," said his lips. His face told another story.
Possibly Steppe had issued peremptory instructions. She was certain
that if she had accepted his views meekly, the doctor would have
named the date and the hour. Steppe may have expressed his desire,
also, that she should be married in gray. He was the sort of man who
would want his bride to wear gray.
Jan Steppe, for all his wealth and experience, retained in some
respects the character of his Boer ancestors. His dearest possession
was a large family Bible, crudely illustrated, and this he cherished
less for its message (printed in the _taal_) than for the family
records that covered four flyleaves inserted for the purpose. He
liked wax fruit under glass shades and there hung in his library
crayon enlargements of his parents, heavily framed in gold. He was a
member of the Dutch Reformed Church and maintained a pew in the kirk
at Heidelberg where he was born and christened. He believed in the
rights of husbands to exact implicit obedience from their wives. The
ultimate value of women was their prolificacy; he might forgive
unfaithfulness; sterility was an unpardonable offense. Springing, as
he did, from a race of cattle farmers, he thought of values in terms
of stock breeding.
Instinctively Beryl had discovered this: on this discovery her
repugnance was based, though she never realized the cause until long
afterwards.
The day of the trial was near at hand. Sir John Maxton had had two
interviews with his client. After the second, he called on her.
"I haven't seen you since I met him, have I? Your Sault! What is
he, in the name of heaven? He fascinates me, Beryl, fascinates me!
Sometimes I wish I had never taken the brief--not because of the
hopelessness of it--it _is_ hopeless, you know--but--"
"But?" she repeated, when he paused, puzzling to express himself
clearly.
"He is amazing: I have never met anybody like him. I am not
particularly keen on my fellows, perhaps I know them too well and
have seen too much of their meannesses, their evilness. But Sault is
different. I went to discuss his case and found myself listening to
his views on immortality. He says that what we call immortality can
be reduced to mathematical formulæ. He limited the infinite to a
circle, and convinced me. I felt like a fourth form boy listening to
a 'brain' and found myself being respectful! But it wasn't that--it
was a sweetness, a clearness--something Christlike. Queer thing to
say about a man who has committed two murders, both in cold blood,
but it is a fact. Beryl, it is impossible to save him, it is only
fair to tell you. I cannot help feeling that if we could get at the
character of this man Moropulos, he would have a chance, but he
absolutely refuses to talk of Moropulos. 'I did it,' he says, 'what
is the use? I shot him deliberately. He was drunk: I was in no
danger from him. I shot him because I wanted him to die. When I
walked over to where he lay, he was dead. If he had been alive I
should have shot him again.' What can one do? If he had been
anybody else, I should have retired from the case.
"There is a safe in this case, probably you have read about it in the
newspapers. It was found in the Greek's house, and is a sort of
secret repository. At any rate, it cannot be opened except by
somebody who knows the code word. I suspected Sault of being one who
could unlock the door and challenged him. He did not deny his
knowledge but declined to give me the word. He never lies: if he
says he doesn't know, it is not worth while pressing him because he
really doesn't know. Beryl, would your father have any knowledge of
that safe?"
She shook her head. "It is unlikely, but I will ask him. Father
says that Ronnie is going to the trial. Is he a witness?"
Sir John had, as it happened, seen Ronnie that day and was able to
inform her. "Ronnie is writing the story of the trial for a
newspaper. What has Sault done to him? He is particularly vicious
about him. In a way I can understand the reason if they had ever
met. Sault is the very antithesis of Ronnie. They would 'swear',
like violently different colors. I asked him if he would care to
stay with me--I have had the Kennivens' house placed at my disposal,
they are at Monte Carlo--but he declined with alacrity. Why does he
hate Sault? He says that he is looking forward to the trial."
Beryl smiled. "For lo, the wicked bend the bow that they may shoot
in the darkness at the upright heart," she quoted.