Jan Steppe's solitary lunch was served at midday, an hour which
ensured his solitude, for he was a man who liked his meals alone. He
was nearing the finish of his repast, his enormous appetite
unimpaired by his unhappy experience of the morning, when two men
mounted the steps of his Berkeley Square residence. They were
unknown to one another; one had walked, the other had descended from
a taxi, and they stood aside politely.
"You are first, sir," said the taller and healthier of the two.
Their cards went in to Jan Steppe together. He saw the tall man
first, jumping up from the table and wiping his fingers on his
serviette.
"In the library, huh?"
He looked at himself in the glass, pulled his cravat straight, and
smoothed his black hair before he made his way to where the tall man,
hat in hand, was waiting his pleasure.
"Well, inspector, what do you want?"
Steppe jerked open the lid of a box and presented its contents for
approval.
"Thank you, sir," the inspector of police chose a cigar with care.
"It is about this Traction Company of your friend's--I think I
remember you saying that you were not in the flotation yourself?"
"No--I bought shares. I have a large number. What about it?"
"Well, sir," said the inspector, speaking slowly, "I am afraid that
matters are very serious--very serious indeed. The Public Prosecutor
has taken action and a warrant has been issued."
Steppe was prepared for this.
"Have you the warrant?"
The officer nodded.
"Can it be put off until tomorrow?"
"Absolutely impossible, sir. The best I can do is to defer its
execution until late tonight. Even then I am taking a risk."
Steppe tugged at his little beard.
"Make it tonight," he said, "I'll undertake that he doesn't leave the
country--you won't let him know, of course?"
"No, sir."
If Steppe had offered as much money as he could command to secure the
escape of his victim, the bribe would have been rejected. But a
postponement of arrest--that was another matter.
"Thank you, inspector."
"Thank you, sir; I shall put a couple of men on to watch him. I must
do that, he will never know."
Steppe went back to the dining room very much occupied.
"No, I can't see anybody else--order the car. Who is he?"
He took up the second card.
"Mr. Jeremiah Talbot."
The man who was concerned in the case where Ronald Morelle had
figured so ingloriously. Perhaps he could tell him something about
Ronnie? Something to his further discredit.
"Bring him in," and when the dapper Mr. Talbot appeared: "I can give
you two minutes, Mr.--er--Talbot."
"I've come from a sense of duty," began the injured Jeremiah. "I'm
certainly not going to be intimidated by threats from a beast like
Ronald Morelle--"
Steppe cut him short.
"Is it about Ronald Morelle? I haven't time to go into your
quarrels."
"It is about Ronnie--and Beryl Merville."
Jan Steppe gazed at the man moodily, then into the fire--then back to
Jeremiah Talbot.
"Sit down," he said. "Now--"
Talbot told his story plainly and without trimmings, save that his
hatred of Ronnie led him to digress from time to time.
"You saw; you are certain?"
"Absolutely, I ran down the stairs. There was a fellow taking
photographs outside, a man with a brown beard--"
Moropulos! And the photograph was that of Beryl Merville!
"Go on."
"That is all. I felt it my duty to tell you. If Ronald Morelle
attempts to browbeat me, I'll give him in charge--"
"All right--you can go. Thank you."
Jan Steppe had his own peculiar views on women in general, the
relationship of Beryl with Ronnie Morelle in particular. Things of
that kind happened. He had thought some such affair was possible,
and was neither shocked nor outraged. Beryl did not love him, he
knew: she loved Morelle. He grinned wickedly.
"The car, sir."
His first call was at the registrar's office. The special license
had been secured a week before.
"I can marry you at half-past two," said the registrar, "we like a
day's notice, but in an exceptional case--"
Steppe paid.
The Mervilles had not gone in to lunch when he arrived. Beryl was in
her room, the doctor working in his study. Steppe wondered what he
was working at.
"I want to see Miss Merville--don't disturb the doctor."
She came down, a listless, hopeless girl. Intuitively she knew that
he had been told. What would he do: she stopped at the door of her
father's study, fighting her fear. Should she tell him first? In
the end she came to Steppe.
"Well, Beryl. What is this I hear about Ronald Morelle and you, huh?"
"What have you heard?"
"That you've been his mistress--that's what I've heard. Damned fine
news for a bridegroom, huh? Does your father know?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want him to know?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care, huh? Got that way now, so that you don't care.
You'll marry me this afternoon."
She looked up.
"This afternoon?"
"Yuh. You'd better tell the doctor; you can tell him anything else
you like about Morelle--but if you don't tell, I won't."
Her hand had gone up to her cheek.
"This afternoon--I can't--give me a day--you said it would be
tomorrow. I'm not ready."
"This afternoon at half past two. Will you tell the doctor, or shall
I?"
She was trying to think.
"I'll tell him. As you wish. This afternoon."
Lunch went into the dining room. Nobody touched food. Steppe had to
return to the house to get the wedding ring, send telegrams changing
the date of his arrival in Paris, settle such minor details of
household management as the change necessitated.
He was at the registrar's office when they came, Dr. Merville and the
white-faced girl. In a cab behind the doctor's car travelled two
Scotland Yard detectives.
The ceremony was simple. The repetition of a few sentences and Beryl
Merville became Beryl Van Steppe. She did not know that his name was
Van Steppe until she saw the marriage certificate.
"You can go home with your father. Be ready to leave by the boat
train tonight."
So he dismissed her. All the way back to the house the doctor was
talking, cheerfully, helpfully. She did not hear him. She was
looking at the broad gold ring on her finger.
As they were entering the house her father leaned back, and
scrutinized the street.
"I'm sure I've seen those two men before--weren't they waiting
outside the registrar's, Beryl?"
Beryl had seen only one man. A man with a black beard, a broad,
swarthy face and two eyes wherein burned the fires of hell.