XV

Ronald Morelle came down the carpeted stairs of the House of Shame,

and there was a half smile on his lips, as though the echoes of

laughter were still vibrating through this silent mansion and he must

respond.

The hall was in darkness except for the light admitted by a

semi-circular transom. Turning his head, he saw that the door of the

salon was ajar, and he hesitated. He had never seen the salon by

daylight, only at night, when the soft lights were burning and silver

chandeliers glowed with tiny yellow globes.

He pushed open the door. The darkness here had been relieved by

somebody who had opened one window and unshuttered two others. The

room was in disorder, chairs remained where the sitters had left

them, and the cold gray light of morning looked upon tarnished

gilding and faded damask, and the tawdry litter of the night before.

Merciless, pitiless, contemptuous was the sneer of the clean dawn.

Ronald's smile deepened. And then he caught a reflection of himself

in one of the long mirrors. He looked pale and drawn. He shivered.

Not because the mirror gave back the illusion of a sick man--he knew

well enough he was healthy--but because he glimpsed the something in

his eyes, the leering devil that sat behind the levers and turned the

switches of desire.

A car was waiting for him at the end of the slumbering street.

Madame did not like cars at the door in the early hours of the

morning, and he stepped in, wrapping his coat about him.

The sun had not yet risen and Wechester was a two hours run with a

clear road.

Sault was in Wechester Gaol awaiting the dread hour, and from

somewhere in Lancashire, a gaunt-faced barber who had marked in his

diary the date of an engagement, had taken train to Ronald's

destination, carrying with him the supple straps that would bind the

wrists of the living and be slipped from the wrists of the dead.

The clear sky gave promise of a perfect winter day, but the morning

air was cold. He pulled up the windows of the car and wished he had

bought a newspaper or book to wile away the time. In two hours the

soul of Ambrose Sault--

The soul! What was the soul? Was it Driesh's "Entelechy;" that

"innnermost secret" of animation? Was there substance to the soul?

Was it material? A flame, Merville had once called it, a flame from

a common fire. Could the flame leap at will from a man's body and

leave him--what? A lunatic, a madman, a beast without reason?

Ronald shrugged away the speculation, but the scholar in him was

uneasy and insensibly he came back to the problem.

The promise of fair weather was belied as the car drew nearer to

Wechester. A mist, thin and white, lay like a blanket on the

streets, and Ronald's car "hawked" its way into the still thicker

mist which lay on Wechester Common. The car drew up at the prison

gates, and he looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter of nine.

Ronnie saw a thin man, thinly clad, walking up and down outside. His

hair was long and fell over his coat collar, his nose was red with

the cold, and now and again he stopped to stamp his feet. Ronnie

wondered who he was.

A wicket opened at his ring, and he showed his authority through the

bars before, with a clang and a clatter of turning locks and the thud

of many bolts, the door swung open and he found himself in a square

stone room furnished with a desk, a high stool and one chair.

The warder took his authority and read it, made an entry in the hook,

and rang a bell. It was a cheerless room, in spite of the fire,

thought Ronald. Three sets of handcuffs garlanded above the chimney

piece; a suggestive truncheon lay on brackets near the warder's desk,

and within reach of his hand, and a framed copy of Prison Regulations

only served to emphasize the bareness of the remaining wall.

Again the clatter and click of the lock and another warder came in.

"Take this gentleman to the governor's room," said the doorkeeper.

Ronald was amused because the second warder put his hand on his arm

as though he were a prisoner, and did not remove his hand even when

he was unlocking the innumerable gates, doors and grilles which stood

between liberty and the prisoners.

The governor's room was scarcely more cheerful than the gatekeeper's

lodge. There was a desk piled with papers, a worn leather armchair

and an office smell which was agreeable and human.

The governor shook hands with the visitor, whom he had met before,

and Ronald nodded to the two other pressmen who were waiting.

Then they took him out into the yard.

The warder led the way, and the doctor followed, then came the

governor and last, save for the warder who brought up the rear, went

Ronald Morelle, without a single tremor of heart, to the house of

doom.

To a great glass-roofed hall with tier upon tier of galleries and

yellow cell doors, and near at hand (that which was nearest to them

as they came in) one cell, door ajar. Outside three blankets neatly

folded were stacked one on each other. They were the blankets in

which the condemned man had slept.

Here was a wait. A nerve-racking wait to those with nerves. Ronald

had none. A small door opened into the yard and he strolled through

it and found himself in a small black courtyard. Twenty paces away

was a little building which looked like a tool house. There were two

gray-black sliding doors and these were open. All he could see was a

plain clean interior with a scrubbed floor, and a yellow rope that

hung from somewhere in the roof. He was joined by an officer whom he

took to be the chief warder.

Physically Ronald was a coward. He admitted as much to himself. He

feared pain, he shrank from danger. In his questionable business

transactions he guarded himself in every way from unpleasant

consequences, employing two lawyers who checked one another's

conclusions.

Yet he could watch the pain of others and never turn a hair. He had

witnessed capital operations and had found stimulus in the experience

which the hospital theatre brings to the enthusiastic scientist. He

had seen death administered by the law in England, America and

France. Once he stood by the side of a guillotine in a little

northern town of France and watched three shrieking men dragged to

"the widow" and was the least affected of the spectators, until the

blood of one splashed his hand. And then it was only disgust he

felt. He himself was incapable of violent action. He might torture

the helpless, but he would have to be sure they were helpless.

"Chilly this morning, sir," said the chief warder conversationally,

and said that he did not know what was happening to the weather

nowadays. "Is this the first time you've been inside?"

"In a prison? Oh lord, no," said Ronnie.

"Ah!" The warder jerked his head toward the door. "On this kind of

job?"

"Yes, twice before."

The officer looked glum.

"Not very pleasant. It upsets all the routine of the establishment.

Can't get the men out for exercise till after it is over. They sit

in their cells and brood--we always have a lot of trouble afterwards."

"How is he going to take it?" asked Ronald.

"Who, the prisoner?" Mr. Marsden smiled. "Oh, he's going to take it

all right. They never give any trouble--and he--he'll go laughing,

you mark my words. We like him, here--that's a funny thing to say,

isn't it? But I assure you, I've had to take three men off

observation duty--they are the warders who sit in the cell with

him--they got so upset. It is a fact. Old fellows who'd been in the

prison service for years. Here's the deputy."

A tall man in a trench coat had come through the grille.

"Good morning, Morelle, have you seen the governor?"

Ronnie nodded.

"He won't be here for the--er--event," said Major Boyle. "Between

ourselves, he said he couldn't stand it. An extraordinary thing.

Have you seen Sir John Maxton?"

"No, is he here?" asked Ronnie interested.

"He's in the cell with the man--there he is."

Sir John's face was gray: he seemed to have shrunken. He had not

expected to see Ronnie, but he made no comment on his presence.

"Good morning, Boyle. Good morning, Ronnie. I have just said

goodbye to him."

"Aren't you staying?"

"No--he understands," said Sir John briefly. Then he seemed to be

conscious of Ronnie's presence. The deputy had gone back to the hall.

"Ronnie, how could you come here this morning--and meet the eyes of

this man so soon to face God?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Ronnie's lips curled.

"I suppose you feel in your heart that it is a great injustice, that

your noble-minded murderer should go to a shameful death, whilst a

leprous but respectable member of society like myself walks free

through that gate!"

"I would wish no man this morning's agony," said the other.

"Suppose you were God--"

"Ronnie, have you no decency!"

"Ob, yes--but suppose you were: would you transfer the soul and the

individuality of us two, Ambrose Sault and Ronnie Morelle?"

"God forgive me, I would, for you are altogether beastly!"

Ronnie laughed again.

There was the sound of a slamming door and a man came into the yard,

squat, unshaven, a little nervous. A derby hat was on the back of

his head, and in his hands, clasped behind him, was a leathern strap.

"There's the hangman," said Ronnie. "Ask him what he thinks of

murderers' souls! What is death, Sir John? Look at those tablets on

the wall--just a few initials. Yet they sleep as soundly as the

great in the Abbey under their splendid monuments. Though they were

hanged by the neck until they were dead. You would like God to

change us. One of those changes which Merville talked about the

other night--it was a pity you weren't there."

Sir John said nothing: he walked to the grille and a warder unlocked

the steel door. For a second he stood and then, as the hangman went

into the hall, he passed out through the opened gate.

Presently two warders came from the hall and then another two,

walking solemnly in slow step, and then a bound man; a great rugged

figure who overshadowed the clergyman by his side. The drone of the

burial service came to Ronald Morelle and he took off his hat.

Sault was reciting something. His powerful voice drowned the thin

voice of the minister:

"It matters not how straight the Gate--"

He paced in time to the metre.

"How charged with punishment the scroll,

"I am the master of my fate--"

Nearer, and yet nearer, and then their eyes met!

The debonair worldling, silk hat in hand, his hair brushed and

pomaded, his immaculate cravat set faultlessly--and the other! That

big gray-faced man with the mane of hair, his rough clothes and his

collarless shirt!

They looked at one another for a fraction of a second, eye to eye,

and Ronald felt something was drawing at him, tugging at his very

heart strings. The eyes of the man were luminous, appealing,

terrible. And then with a crash the world stood still--all animate

creation was frozen stiff, petrified, motionless, and Ronald swayed

for a moment.

Then a firm hand on his arm pushed him forward. He stepped forth

mechanically. He had a curious, almost painful feeling of

restriction. And then he realized, with a half-sob, that his hands

were bound behind him, strapped so tightly that they were swollen and

tingling, and warders were holding his arms. He tried to speak, but

no sound came, and looking up he saw--!

Once more he was looking into eyes, but they were the eyes of

himself! Ronald Morelle was standing watching him with sorrow and

pity. Ronald Morelle was watching himself! And then again the

urgent hand pressed him forward and he paced mechanically.

"----I know that my Redeemer liveth----"

The little clergyman was walking by his side, reading tremulously.

Ronald looked down at himself, his shoe was hurting him, somebody had

left a nail there and he cursed François: but those were not his

shoes he was looking at, they were great rough boots and his trousers

were old and frayed and there was a shiny patch on his knee.

"--Man that is born of a woman hath but little time upon this earth,

and that time is filled with misery--"

He walked like one in a dream into the shed and felt the trap sag

under him. The executioner--it must be the executioner, he thought,

stooped and strapped his legs tightly. Ronald wondered what would

happen. It was an absurd mistake, of course, rather amusing in a

way--François had not been paid his month's salary, and François was

meeting his brother today from Interlaken, Interlaken in the Oberland.

The man put a cloth over his face--it was linen, unbleached and

pungent. When the executioner passed the elastic loops behind his

ears, he released one too quickly and it stung.

"It is not me, it is not me," said Ronald numbly, "it is the body of

Ambrose Sault--the gross body of Ambrose Sault! I'm standing outside

watching! It is Sault who is being hanged--Sault! I am

Morelle--Morelle of Balliol--Major Boyle," he screamed aloud. "Major

Boyle--you know me--I am Morelle--"

Yet his body was huge--he felt its grossness, its size, the strength

of the corded muscles of the arm; the roaring fury of the life which

surged within him. He heard a squeak--the lever was being pulled--

With a crash the trap gave way and the body of Ambrose Sault swung

for a second and was dead, but it was the soul of Ronald Morelle that

went forth to the eternal spaces of infinity.

The prison clock struck nine.

_BOOK THE FOURTH_

I

A warder came round the edge of the pit with his arms extended as the

executioner, reaching out his hand, steadied the quivering rope. The

prison doctor looked down the pit.

"He's all right," he said vaguely.

The tremulous clergyman was the last to go; backing out of the death

chamber he watched the warders close and lock the doors.

The body of Ronald Morelle settled its top hat firmly on its shapely

head and looked down at the little parson. There were tears in that

good man's eyes.

"He was not bad, he was not bad," he murmured shakily. "I wish he

had repented the murder."

"There was nothing to repent," said Ronald quietly, "if repentance

were possible, the murder was unnecessary."

His voice was strangely deep and rich. Hearing himself, he wondered.

The minister looked up at him in surprise.

"He said exactly the same thing to me this morning," he said, "and in

almost identical words; the poor fellow expressed his thoughts in

language which seemed unnatural remembering his illiteracy."

"Poor soul," said Ronnie thoughtfully. "Poor lonely, lonely soul!"

He took the minister's arm in his and they walked back to the prison

hall. There was a surplice to be shed, devotional books to be packed

in a little black bag.

The condemned cell was being turned out by two men in convict's garb.

One was using a broom, sweeping with long, leisurely strokes, and his

face had a suggestion of sadness. The other was carrying out the

remainder of the bedding and washing the utensils which the dead man

had used. All this Ronald noticed with a curiously detached interest.

Shepherded back again to the governor's office, there was a form to

be signed, testifying that he had witnessed the execution which had

been carried out in a proper and decorous manner. Ronald took the

pen and hesitated a second before he signed. The appearance of his

signature on paper interested him--it was unfamiliar.

"You've seen these executions before, Mr. Morelle?" said the

under-sheriff.

"Oh, yes," said Ronald quietly. "I do not think I shall come again.

The waste of it, the malice of it!"

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," said the under-sheriff

gruffly and Ronald smiled sadly.

"The Old Testament is excellent as literature but in parts diabolical

as a code of morals," he said, and went through the porter's lodge to

the world.

There was a small crowd, some twenty or thirty people grouped at a

distance from the gate. Their interest was concentrated upon the

kneeling figure that confronted Ronnie as he walked out of the lodge.

"He comes here every time we have a hanging," said the gateman in

Ronnie's ear.

It was the thin man in the threadbare coat; he knelt bareheaded, his

blue hands clasped, his voice hoarse with a cold.

"--let him be the child of Thy mercies--pardon, we beseech Thee, O

Lord our God, this our brother who comes before Thy seat of

Judgment--"

Ronnie listened to the husky voice. Presently and with a final

supplication, the man got up and dusted his knees.

"For whom are you praying?" asked Ronnie gently.

"For Ambrose Sault, brother," answered the man.

"For Ambrose Sault?" repeated Ronnie absently, "that is very sweet."

He looked thoughtfully at the man and then walked away.

Following the Common road that would have taken him to Wechester, he

heard a car coming behind him and presently the glittering bonnet

moved past him and stopped.

"Excuse me, sir."

Ronnie looked round. He did not know the chauffeur who was touching

his cap. And yet he had seen his face.

"I thought you may have missed the car--I had to park away from the

prison."

Of course! He breathed a heavy sigh as the problem was solved. It

was his own car and the chauffeur's name was Parker.

"I haven't the slightest idea where I was going," he laughed. "You

look cold, Parker. We had better stop in Wechester and get

breakfast."

Parker could only gape.

"Yes, sir," he stammered, "but don't worry about me, sir. I shall be

all right."

Ronnie was puzzling again. Then he had it. The Red Lion! There was

an inn just outside of Wechester; he had stopped there before.

Apparently Parker expected some such directions.

They left the mists behind them at Wechester and came to the Red Lion.

A pretty girl waitress at the hotel saw Ronnie and tossed her head.

Her manner was cold. He couldn't remember.

That was the oddness of it. He had lost some of his memories. They

were completely blotted out from his mind. Why was this pretty girl

so cross? He was to learn. Finishing his breakfast he strolled out

into the big yard where the car was garaged. The chauffeur was at

his breakfast.

"Hi! I want to have a talk with you!"

A man was approaching. He looked like a groom, wearing gaiters as he

did, and he was in his shirtsleeves. Moreover, his style and

appearance was hostile.

"You're the man who was staying here for the trial!" challenged the

newcomer.

"Was I--I suppose so."

"Was you!" sneered the groom savagely. "Yes, you was! Staying here

with a young woman and you went and interfered with my young woman.

Yes, interfered--said things to her."

His voice went up the scale until he was shouting. There was a stir

of feet and men and women came to the doors of outhouses and kitchens.

"Doesn't it strike you that you are making the young lady feel

uncomfortable--if she is here," said Ronnie seriously. "You are

shouting what should be whispered--no, no, Parker, please do not

interfere."

"I'll tell you what does strike me," bellowed the groom, rolling up

his sleeves, "that I'm going to give you the damnedest lacing you

ever had--put 'em up!"

He lunged forward, but his blow did not get home. A hand gripped him

by one shoulder and swung him round--crash! He fell against a stable

door. Happily there was a wall for Parker to lean against. He was

open-mouthed--incredulous.

Phew! Morelle who was ready to drop from terror at a threat, was

standing, hands on hips, surveying the bewildered fire-eater.

"I'm extremely sorry you made me do that," he said almost

apologetically, "but you really must not shout--especially about

unpleasant things. If I--if I behaved disgracefully to the lady, I

am sorry."

All this in a voice that did not reach beyond his adversary. Parker

heard the low music of it and scratched his head. Morelle's voice

had changed.

Later, when Ronnie was preparing to depart, Parker ventured to offer

felicitations.

"I never saw a man go through it like that fellow did--and they think

something of him as a fighter in these parts."

"It was nothing," said Ronnie hastily, "a trick--I learned it in New

Caledonia from a Japanese who was in the same prison."

Parker blinked.

"Yes, sir," he said, and then Ronnie laughed.

"What on earth am I talking about? I think we will go home, Parker."

"Yes, sir," said Parker, breathing hard. He had never seen his

master drunk before, and drunk he undoubtedly was, for not only had

he fought, but he was civil. Parker hoped he would keep drunk.

In his pocket Ronnie found a gold cigarette case, a pocketbook, a

watch and chain, a small billcase and a gold pencil. In his trousers

pocket were a few silver coins and some keys. He found them

literally; the seat of the car was strewn with his discoveries.

Whose were they? The cigarette case was inscribed: "To Ronnie from

Beryl." Ronnie--Beryl? Of course they were his own properties. He

chuckled gleefully at his amusing lapse.

"No, I shan't want you again, Parker--how do I get into touch with

you if--? Yes, of course, I 'phone you at the garage. Good morning."

"Good morning." Parker was too dazed to return the politeness.

Ronnie shook his head smilingly when the porter opened the gate of

the automatic elevator. He would walk, he said, and went up the

stairs two at a time. This exercise tired him slightly. And usually

he felt so strong, nothing tired him. That day he lifted Moropulos

and flung him on his bed. Moropulos had hated him ever since.