Part 16

Ronald was angry for many reasons: he was not in the mood to grant favors.

"You have Sundays and you have your holidays. That's enough," he said.

François went out crestfallen.

"I suppose you think I'm unkind," said Ronnie with a laugh, as he helped take off her coat. "But if you give that sort of people an inch, they'll take the earth."

He dropped his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"It is lovely to have you here. You're two hours too soon--"

"Am I?" she asked in alarm. "I was so upset last night that I don't know what you said."

"I said ten o'clock, but it doesn't matter. Only François would have been gone by then. How lovely you are, Evie! How slim and straight and desirable!"

Suddenly she was in his arms, his face against hers. She struggled, pushing him away, escaping at last, too breathless for speech.

"You smother me," she gasped. "Don't kiss me like that, Ronnie. Let's talk. You know I oughtn't to be here," she urged. "But I did so want to see your beautiful house."

He did not take his eyes from her. "You are going to do what I asked you?"

She nodded, shook her head, her heart going furiously. "I don't know--Ronald, I do love you, but I'm so--so frightened."

He drew her down to him and she sat demurely on the edge of the deep lounge chair he occupied.

"And I'll take you to--where shall I take you?" he bantered.

"Somewhere in Italy, you said."

"Palermo! Glorious Palermo--darling, think of what it will be, just you and I. No more snatched meetings and disagreeable sisters, eh?"

Evie was thinking: he did not break in upon her thoughts. She was good to see. More attractive in her silence, for she had the slightest of cockney twangs.

"I wish Christina could come," she said at last; a note of defiance was in her tone. "A change like that would be splendid for her, and I've always planned to give her one."

"Christina? Good lord! Come with us? You mad little thing, I'm not running a sanatorium."

He laughed, leaning back in the chair to look up at her.

"Ronnie, I know it is awful nerve on my part--but if you love me--"

He expected this. The philosophies he imparted seldom survived the acid test which opportunity applied.

"I suppose," she went on nervously, "it would be too much of a come-down to think of--of marrying me?"

"Marriage!" His voice was reproving, his manner that of a man grievously hurt.

"You know what I think--what we both think about marriage, Evie?"

"It is--it is respectable anyway."

"Respectable!" he scoffed. "Who respects you? Who thinks any worse of you if you aren't married? People respect you for your independence. Marriage! It is a form of bondage invented by professional Christians who make a jolly good living out of it."

"Well, religion is something. And the Bible--"

Ronnie jumped up.

"We'll try the luck, Evie!" He went to a shelf and took down a book.

Evie was a dubious spectator. The fallibility of the method seemed open to question when such enormous issues were at stake. Yet she accepted a trifle reluctantly, the little sword he handed to her, and thrust it between the pages of the closed book.

She opened it at the passage the sword had found.

"'Woe unto you--'" she began, but he snatched the book from her hands.

"No, silly," he said, and read glibly. "'There is no fear in love: perfect love casteth out fear!'"

Evie was skeptical.

"You made it up!" she accused. "I mean, you only pretended it was there. I know that passage. I learned it at school--it is in John."

He chuckled, delighted at her astuteness. "You little bishop," he said, and kissed her. "Now sit and amuse yourself. I want to speak to François."

He was on his way to the pantry to dismiss François to his home when the bell sounded. He stopped François with a gesture.

XII

"Don't open the door for a minute," he said in a low voice. "Evie, will you come tomorrow night--no not tomorrow. Today is Monday, come on Friday."

"Yes, dear." She was glad to escape.

"Through there," he pointed. "François, let mademoiselle out by the pantry door after you have answered the bell."

Who was the visitor? People did not call upon him except by invitation--except Steppe. And Jan Steppe came slowly and suspiciously into the hall. Ronnie scarcely noticed the doctor who followed him.

"Why were you keeping me waiting?" he growled.

"François could not have heard the bell," answered Ronnie easily.

"That's a lie." He looked round the room and sniffed. "You had a woman here, as usual, I suppose?"

Ronnie looked injured.

"M'm. Some shop girl," insisted the big man. "One of your pickups, huh?"

"I tell you I have been alone all the evening," said Ronnie, resigned. "François, isn't that so?"

Jan Steppe saved the servant from needless perjury.

"He's as big a liar as you are. You'll burn your fingers one of these days." He had a deep, harsh laugh, entirely without merriment. "You had a little trouble about one last year, didn't you?"

Merville, impatient and fretful, broke in. "Let him alone, Steppe. I want to get this business over."

Steppe stared at him. "Oh, you want to get it over, do you? We'll hurry things up for you, doctor!"

Ronnie was interested. He had never heard Steppe speak to Merville in that tone. There had been a marked change in Jan's attitude, even in the past few days. However, Ronnie was chiefly concerned in considering all the possible reasons for this call. The doctor explained and Ronnie breathed again.

"We'll sit here," said Steppe.

He sat down in Ronnie's library chair and taking a bundle of documents from his inside pocket, he threw them on the table.

"Here are the papers you want, Merville--and by the way!" He turned in his chair and glowered at Ronnie. "Do you remember we pooled the Midwell Traction shares, Morelle?" His voice was ominous.

"Er--yes--of course," said Ronnie, quaking.

"We undertook to hold the stock until we mutually agreed as to the moment we should unload, huh?" Steppe demanded deliberately.

Ronald made an ineffectual attempt to appear unconcerned.

"And we undertook not to part with a share until the stock reached forty-three. Do you remember, huh?"

"Yes," said Ronnie, and the big man's fist crashed down on the table.

"You're sure you remember?" he shouted. "You sold at thirty-five. Do that again, and d'ye know what I'll do?"

"I'm sure Ronald wouldn't--" began Merville, but was silenced.

"You shut up! It didn't matter so much that Traction slumped. But you broke faith with me, you rat!"

"Don't lose your temper, Steppe," said the other sulkily, "it was a mistake, I tell you. My broker sold without authority."

"Whilst we are on the subject of the Traction shares, I want to ask about the statement I filed in regard to the assets of the company. Was it right?" For a week the doctor had been trying to put this question. "Of we three, I'm the only director--you're not in it and Ronnie isn't in it, if there is anything wrong, I should be the goat?"

Steppe's voice was milder. Here was a topic to be avoided.

"Huh! You're all right. What are you frightened about?"

"I'm not frightened, but you had the draft?"

"It is in the safe," said Steppe with some satisfaction.

"Steppe, how do we stand there?" asked the doctor urgently. "I know Moropulos was doing work for you of a sort. What was his position and Sault's? Is that the safe which Sault made? He told me about it some time ago."

Steppe turned his head again in Ronald's direction.

"You went to the trial! You saw him! You've seen him before--what do you think of him--clever, huh?"

"Well, I don't know--"

"Of course he's clever, you fool," said the other contemptuously. "If you had his brains and his principles, you'd be a big man. Remember that--a big man."

"I am attending the execution," said Ronnie, "the under sheriff is admitting three press reporters, and I am to be one of them."

Steppe eyed him gloomily, groping after the mind of the man who could fear him, yet did not fear to see a man done to death.

"I'll tell you men all about Moropulos and Sault because you're all tarred with my brush. This is the big pull of Sault. A pull he's never used. Moropulos and I had business together. He was on one side of a wall called 'Law', huh? I was on the other. The comfortable side. And he used to hand things over. That put me a bit on his side. There were letters and certain other documents which we had to keep, yet were dangerous to keep. But you might always want 'em. I was scared over some shares that--well, I oughtn't have had them. And that's how Sault came to make the 'Destroying Angel', that's a good name! I christened it. There was a combination lock, the word being known only to Moropulos, Sault and myself. If you used the wrong combination--any combination but the right one, the acids are released and the contents of the safe destroyed. If you try to cut through the sides--the water runs out, down drops a plunger with the same result. When Moropulos was killed I tried to get at it, but the police were there before me. There was a typewritten note pasted on the top of the safe, telling exactly what would happen if they monkeyed with it. They haven't dared to touch it. It's in the Black Museum today with enough stuff inside to send me--well, a hell of a long way."

"Suppose this man tells?" asked Merville fearfully.

"He won't tell. That kind of man doesn't squeal. If it had been Ronald Morelle, I'd have been on my way to South America by now. A word from Sault and I'm--" he snapped his fingers, "but do you think it worries me? I can sleep and go about my work without a second's fear. That's the kind of man I am. No nerves--look at my hand." He thrust out his heavy paw stiffly. "Steady as a rock, huh? Good boy, Sault!"

"I met him once--" began Ronnie.

"I've met him more than once," said the grim Steppe. "A man with strange compelling eyes, the only fellow that ever frightened me!" He looked at Ronald curiously. "It is unbelievable that a white-livered devil like you can see him die. It would make me sick. And yet you, whose nerves ought to be rags considering the filthy life you live, can stand calmly by--ugh! I don't know how you can do it! To see a man's soul go out!"

Ronnie laughed quickly. "Sault's rather keen on his soul. Boyle, the governor, says he recited Henley's poem on his way to the cells."

But Steppe did not laugh. "Soul? H'm. He made me believe in something--soul or spirit or--something. He dominated me. Do you believe in the soul, Merville?"

"Yes, I do. A transient _x_ that only abides in the body at the will of its host."

Ronnie groaned wearily. "Oh, God, are you going to lecture?" he asked and Jan Steppe roared at him.

"Shut up! Go on, Merville. Do you mean that it leaves the body before--death?"

"I think so," said Merville thoughtfully. "I've often stood by the side of a patient desperately sick, and suddenly felt in my body his despair and weakness, and seen him brighten and flush with my strength."

"Really?" Steppe's voice was intense. "Do you mean that your spirits have exchanged themselves?"

Dr. Merville flicked the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "Call it 'spirit', 'soul', 'X', anything you like--call it individuality. There has been a momentary exchange."

"How do you explain it?"

"Science doesn't explain everything," said Merville. "Science accepts a whole lot of what we call 'incommensurables'."

"H'm," Steppe pushed away the papers and rose. "H'm. That'll do for the night. Keep those papers, you fellows, and digest them. You going out, Morelle?"

"No, would you like me to go anywhere with you?" Ronnie was eager to serve.

"No," shortly. "Merville, I'm dining with you tomorrow. And I hope Beryl won't have a headache this time. I've got a box at the Pantheon."

The doctor was obviously embarrassed.

"She--well, she isn't very bright just now."

"Let her be bright enough to come to dinner tomorrow night," said Steppe.

The door banged and Ronnie drew a deep breath.

"Thank God," he said piously.

XIII

François went after them, not unhappy to detach himself from a tense and threatening atmosphere, his resentment against his employer somewhat modified when he reached home, by a letter from his visiting brother announcing the postponement of his departure from Switzerland.

Therefore it was Ronnie who answered the sharp ring of the bell. When he saw the girl his jaw dropped.

"Really, Beryl! You place me in a most awkward position. Whatever made you come? Steppe was here--suppose he came back? Why didn't you bring somebody with you?"

He was flustered and scared. Steppe might return at any moment.

"I'm sorry I have outraged the proprieties," said Beryl with a little smile. "Did that child from the druggist's have a chaperon?"

"Eh?" Ronnie was startled.

"I saw her come in and I saw her go out. I've been waiting for an opportunity of seeing you. She's pretty, but, oh, Ronald, she's only a baby!"

Ronnie made a quick recovery from his surprise. If she had seen Evie, she had also seen Steppe and must be sure that he had gone. She would probably know from her father what were their plans for the night.

"I give you my word of honor, Beryl," said he earnestly, "that she merely came to see me about her sister--you know her, Christina, I think she is called. Evie is very anxious that I should help send her abroad. As far as Evie is concerned, you can put your mind at rest. I give you my solemn word of honor that I have never a& much as held her hand."

She knew he was lying, but tonight of all nights she must accept his word. She was in a fever: it was almost painful to hold fast to the last shreds of her failing reserve.

"Ronald." Her voice was tremulous and he braced himself for a scene. "You don't want me to marry Steppe?"

So that was it. And he had thought she had accepted the position so admirably.

"Ronald, you know it would be--death to me--worse than death to me. Can't you--can't you use your imagination?"

Her eyes avoided his: that alone helped to restore a little of his poise. She had come as a suppliant, and would not be difficult to handle. The old Beryl, polished, cynical mistress of herself and her emotions, might have beaten him down; induced God knows what, extravagant promises.

"I don't want to talk about what has happened. I am not reproaching you or appealing to any sense of duty but--"

She stood there, her eyes downcast, twisting her gloves into tight spirals. He said nothing, holding his arguments in reserve against her exhaustion.

"You make it hard, awfully hard for me, Ronnie. You do know--Steppe wants to marry me?"

He nodded.

"Do you realize what that means--to me, Ronnie?"

"He's not a bad fellow," protested Ronnie. "Really, Beryl, I never dreamed you were going to take this line. Is it decent?"

"He's--he's awful, Ronnie, you know he's awful. He's hideous, he's just animal all through. Animal with reasoning powers, gross--horrible. You liked me, Ronnie," she was pleading now. "Why--why don't you marry me? I love you--I must have loved you. I could learn to respect you so easily. They say you're rotten, but you're of my own kind. Ronnie, don't you know what it means to me to say this--don't you know?"

She was gripping his arm with an intensity which made him wince. Hysteria--suppose Steppe did come back? He went moist at the thought.

"Ronnie, why don't you?" she breathed. "It would save me. It would save father, too. He would accept the accomplished fact, and be relieved. Ronnie, it would save my soul and my body. I'd serve you as faithfully as any woman ever served a man, I would Ronnie. I'd be--I'd be as light as the lightest woman you know--don't you realize what I am saying--?"

"My dear girl," he said, thoroughly alarmed, "I couldn't oppose Steppe, he's a good fellow, really he is. I'm sure you'd be happy. I'm awfully fond of you--"

"Then take me away! I'll go with you tonight--now, now! Take me. Ronnie, I'll go--now--this very minute and I'll bless you. He wouldn't want me then. I know him."

"I--I wish you wouldn't talk such rot," he quavered.

"Take me," she urged desperately. "There is a train tonight for Ostende, take me. Take me, Ronald, I could love you--I could love you in gratitude--save me from this gross man."

Ronnie, in a flurry of fear, pushed her away. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said shrilly. "Steppe would kill me. Beryl, I'm fond of you, but I can't cross Steppe."

That was the end, her last throw in the game. Ronnie was Ronnie. That was all. She was very calm now; but for her pallor and the uncontrollable tremor of her hands, her old self.

That she had humiliated herself did not bring her a moment's regret. Stampeded--she had been stampeded by sheer physical fear.

"I think I'll go," she said, taking up her furs. "You need not get me a cab--this time. And Moropulos cannot photograph me. I might have forced you to do what I wished, playing on your fears. I couldn't do that. What a coward--but I won't reproach you, Ronnie."

She held out her hand and he held it reluctantly. This time he took no risks. He gave her a minute's start and then he, too, went out. Madame Ritti was ever a place of refuge to Ronnie when his nerves were jangled.

XIV

How quickly the days flew past! Beryl had a letter from Sir John Maxton one Saturday:

"I have seen our friend for the third time since the sentence; you know that on Tuesday he 'goes the way'--those are his own words. What can I tell you of him. Beryl, that you do not know? He has become one of my dearest friends. How strange that seems, written! Yet it is true and when he asked me if I would come and see him on the morning, I agreed. In France it is the custom of the defending advocate to be present--I am glad it is not necessary in England. Yet I shall go and I pray that I may be as fearless as he.

"He spoke of you yesterday and of 'Christina'--that is Miss Colebrook, isn't it? But so cheerfully!

"The officers of the prison are fond of him and even the chief warder, a hard-bitten Guardsman, who was the principal flogger at Pentonville for many years, speaks of him affectionately. Completely untroubled--that is how I should describe Ambrose. He has been allowed the privilege of a reader, one of the warders, an educated man who acts as librarian to the prison. He has chosen Gibbon's 'Roman Empire' and on my suggestion, he is concentrating on the chapters dealing with the creation of the Byzantine Empire. The story of Belesarius fascinates him; Belesarius is a character after his own heart, as I knew would be the case. The chaplain sees him frequently and Ambrose is politely attentive. It is rather like a village schoolmaster instructing Newton in astronomy. Ambrose is so far advanced that the good man's efforts to bring him to an understanding are just a little pathetic. 'I can't understand Mr. Pinley's God,' he said to me when I called immediately after the clergyman's visit. 'He is a slave's conception of a super-master--the superstition of a fighting tribe.' Ambrose holds to his own faith, which is comprehended in Henley's poem 'Out of the dark which covers me.' He recites this continuously.

"I said that he spoke of you and Christina. I asked him if he would like to see you both, knowing that if he did you would face the ordeal. But he said that it was unnecessary."

On the Monday evening Christina came to the house. They did not sleep that night.

"I suppose we're neurotic, but I never felt saner," said Beryl, "or more peacefully minded. And yet if it were somebody I did not know, some servant with whom I was just on nodding terms, I should be a bundle of nerves. And it is Ambrose! Christina, are we just keyed up, over-strained--shall we collapse? I have wondered."

"I shall not break," said Christina, "I have been worrying about you--"

Yet it was Christina on whom the chimes of the little French clock on the mantelpiece fell like the knell of doom.

"--six--seven--eight--nine!" counted Beryl, tense, exalted.

It was over. Ambrose Sault had gone the way.

"Goodbye, Ambrose!"

Christina's voice was a wail. Before Beryl could reach her, she had slipped to the floor in a dead faint.

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--