Part 4

"What came after was even more curious. Mrs. Colebrook got up quite unaided, sat down in a chair before the fire and fell fast asleep. Sault sat down, too. I gave him some brandy and he seemed to recover. But he did not speak again, not even to answer my questions. He sat bolt upright in a wooden chair by the side of the kitchen table--all this happened in the kitchen. He didn't move for a long time and then his hands began to stray along the table. There was a big work basket at the other side and presently his hands reached it and he drew it toward him. I watched him. He took out some garment, I think it was a night dress belonging to one of the girls. It was unfinished and the needle was sticking into it--he began to sew!"

"Good God!" cried Maxton. "Do you suggest that on the touching of hands the two identities changed?"

"I suggest that--I assert that," said the doctor quietly, and drank his wine.

"Rubbish!" growled Steppe. "What did Sault say about it?"

"I will tell you. Exactly an hour after this extraordinary transference had been made, I saw Mrs. Colebrook going pale. She opened her eyes and looked at me in a puzzled way, then at the daughter, a pretty child who had been present all the time. 'I always 'ave these attacks, sir,' she said, 'a haneurism the doctors call it!'"

"And Sault?"

"He was himself again, but distressingly tired and wan."

"Did he explain?"

The doctor shook his head.

"He didn't understand or remember much. The next day out of curiosity I called at the house and asked him if he could sew. He was amused. He said that he had never used a needle in his life, his hands were too big."

Beryl sat back with a sigh. "It doesn't seem--human," she said.

The doctor had opened his mouth to reply when there was a crash in the hall outside and the sound of a high, aggressive voice. Another second and the door was thrown violently open and the man lurched in. He was hatless and his frock coat was covered with the coffee-colored stains of wet mud. His cravat was awry and the ends hung loose over his unbuttoned waist-coat. A stray lock of black hair hung over his narrow forehead. He strode into the center of the room and with legs apart, one hand on his hip and the other caressing his long, brown beard, he surveyed the company with a sardonic smile.

"Hail! Thieves and brother bandits!" he said thickly. He spoke with a slight lisp. "Hail! Head devil and chief of the tribe! Hail! Helen--"

Steppe was on his feet, his head thrust forwards, his shoulders bent. Maxton saw him and started. There was something feline in that crouching attitude. "You drunken fool! How dare you come here, huh!"

Mr. Moropulos snapped his fingers contemptuously. "I come, because I have the right," he said with drunken gravity, "who will deny the prime minister the right of calling upon the king?" he bowed and nearly lost his balance, recovering by the aid of a chairback.

"Go to my study, Moropulos, I will come out with you," Steppe had gained control of himself, but the big frame was trembling with pent rage.

"Study--bah! Here is my study! Hail, doctor, man of obnoxious draughts, hail, stranger, whoever you are--where's the immaculate Ronnie? Flower of English chivalry and warrior of a million flights--huh?"

He bellowed his imitation of Steppe's grunt and chuckled with laughter.

"Now, listen, confederates, I have done with you all. I am going to live honest. Why? I will tell you--"

"Moropulos!" Beryl turned quickly toward the door. She knew before she saw the stolid figure that it was Sault. Moropulos turned too.

"Ah! The faithful Ambrose--do you want me, Sault?" His tone was mild, he seemed to wilt under the steady gaze of the man in the doorway. Ambrose Sault beckoned and the drunken intruder shuffled out, shamefaced, fearful.

"Quite an interesting evening," said Sir John Maxton as he closed the car door on the Mervilles that night.

VII

Two days later Sir John Maxton made an unexpected call upon the doctor and it occurred to him that he might also have made an unwelcome appearance; for he interrupted a tête-à-tête.

"I thought I should find the doctor in. Well, Ronnie, how are you after all these years?"

Ronnie was relieved to see him--that was the impression which the lawyer received. And Beryl, although she was her sweet, equable self, would gladly have excused his presence. Maxton had an idea that he had surprised them in the midst of a quarrel. The girl was flushed and her eyes were unusually bright. Ronnie's countenance was clouded with gloom. Sir John was sensitive to atmosphere.

"No, I really won't stay, I wanted to have a chat with the doctor about the extraordinary story he told us the other night. I was dining with the Lord Chief and some other judges last night and, without mentioning names, of course, I repeated the story. They were remarkably interested, Berham says that he had heard of such a case--"

"What is all this about?" asked Ronnie curiously. "You didn't tell me anything, Beryl. Who, what and where is the 'case'?"

"Mr. Sault," she said shortly.

"Oh, Sault! He is an extraordinary fellow--I must meet him. They say that he cannot read or write."

"Is that a fact?" Sir John Maxton looked at the girl.

"Yes--I believe so. Ronnie on the contrary is in the way of becoming a famous writer, Sir John."

"So I hear." He wondered why she had so deliberately and so abruptly brought the conversation into another channel.

Ronald Morelle, for his part, was not inclined to let the subject drift. "It is quaint how that coon intrigues you all," he said, "oh, yes, he is colored. You haven't seen him, John, or you wouldn't ask that question."

"I have seen him; it did not appear to me that he was colored--he has a striking face."

"At any rate, he seems to have struck you and Beryl all of a heap," said Ronnie smiling. "Really I must meet him. Are you going, Sir John?" Maxton was taking his farewell of the girl. "Because if you are, I'll walk a little way with you. 'Bye, Beryl."

"Goodbye, Ronnie," she said quietly.

Once in the street Maxton asked: "What is the matter with you and Beryl?"

"Nothing--Beryl is just a little grandmotherly. She went to the theatre last night with some people and she spotted me in a box."

"I see," said Sir John drily, "and of course you were not alone in the box."

"Why on earth should I be?" demanded the other. "Beryl is really unreasonable. She swore that my friend was a girl she had seen me with in the park."

"And who was it--is that a discreet question?"

"No it isn't," said Ronnie instantly. "I don't think one ought to chuck names about--it is most dishonorable and caddish. The lady was a very great friend of mine."

"Then I probably know her," said Sir John wilfully dense. "I know most of the people in your set, and I cannot imagine that you would be scoundrel enough to escort the kind of girl you couldn't introduce to me or Beryl or any other of your friends."

"I give you my word of honor," Ronnie was earnest, "that the lady was not only presentable, but is known personally to you. The fact is, that she had a row with her fiancé, a man I know very well, a Coldstreamer, and I was doing no more than trying to reconcile them--bring them together you understand. She was dreadfully depressed, and I got a box at the theatre with the idea of cheering her up. My efforts," he added virtuously, "were successful. Beryl said that it was a girl--the daughter of a dear friend of mine, she had seen me talking with in the park."

"What dear friend of yours was this?"

"I don't think you've met him," parried Ronnie.

"Did she have trouble with her fiancé, too?" asked Sir John innocently. "Really, Ronnie, you are coming out strong as a disinterested friend of distressed virgins! If I may employ the imagery and language of an American burglar whom I recently defended--Sir Galahad has nothing on you!"

"You don't believe me, John," said Ronnie injured.

"Of course I cannot believe you. I am not a child. You had some girl with you, some 'pick up', innocent or guilty, God knows. I will assume her innocence. The sophisticated have no appeal for you. There was a girl named East--a chorus girl, if I remember rightly--"

"If you're going to talk about that disgraceful attempt to blackmail me, I'm finished," said Ronnie resigned.

"Why didn't you charge her and her brother with blackmail? They came to me--"

"Good lord, did they? I'll break that infernal blackguard's neck!"

"When will you meet him?" Ronnie did not answer.

"They came to me and I knew that the story was true. The brother, of course, _is_ a blackmailer. He is levying blackmail now and you are paying him--don't argue, Ronnie, of course you are paying him. You said just now that you would break his neck, which meant to me that you see him frequently--when he comes to draw his blood money. If it were a case of blackmail, why did you not prosecute? The mere threat of the prosecution would have been sufficient to have sent him to ground--it struck me that the girl was acting under the coercion of her brother, and I do not think you would have had any trouble from her. Ronnie, you are rotten." He said this as he stopped at the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly, and Ronnie smiled nervously.

"Oh come now, John, that is rather a strong expression."

"Rotten," repeated the lawyer. He screwed a monocle in his eye and surveyed his companion dispassionately. "Chorus girls--shop girls--the mechanics of joy who serve Madame Ritti--that made you jump, eh? I know quite a lot about you. They are your life. And God gave you splendid gifts and the love of the sweetest, dearest girl in this land."

"Who is this?" asked the young man slowly.

"Beryl. You do not need to be told that. Search the ranks of your light women for her beauty, Ronnie."

A girl passed them, a wisp of a girl on the borderline of womanhood. She carried a little bag and was hurrying home from the store where she was employed. Even as he listened to the admonition of his companion, Ronnie caught her eyes and smiled into them--she paused and looked round once--he was still watching her.

"I am afraid I must leave you, John, I've a lot of work to do, and you are quite mistaken as to my character--and Beryl." He left the lawyer abruptly and walked toward the gates of the park where the girl had stopped, ostensibly to tie a shoe-lace.

Sir John saw her pass leisurely into the park; a few seconds later Ronnie had followed. His time was his own, for Evie Colebrook was working that evening, the annual stocktaking was in progress, as she had told him when they were at the theatre on the previous night.

"Rotten!" repeated Maxton, and stalked gloomily to his club.

VIII

Mr. Ronald Morelle's flat was on the third floor of a block that faced busy Knightsbridge. His library was a large and airy room at the back and from the open casements commanded an uninterrupted view of the park. It was a pleasant room with its rows of bookshelves and its chintzes. The silver fireplace and the rich Persian rugs which covered the parquet were the only suggestions of luxury. There were one or two pictures which François had an order to remove when certain visitors were expected. The rest were decent reproductions with the exception of a large oil painting above the mantelpiece. It was a St. Anthony and was attributed to Titiano Vecellio. The austere saint loomed darkly from a sombre background and was represented as an effeminate youth; the veining of the neck and shoulders was characteristically Titian, so too was the inclination of a marble column which showed faintly in the picture. Titiano's inability to draw a true vertical line is well known and upon this column, more than upon other evidence, the experts accepted the picture as an early example of the fortunate painter's work.

Ronnie was indifferent as to the authenticity of the picture. The dawning carnality on Anthony's lean face, the misty shape of the temptress--Titian or his disciple had reduced to visibility the doubt, the gloating and the very thoughts of the Saint.

A black oak table stood in the center of the room and a deep Medici writing chair was placed opposite the black blotting-pad. It pleased Ronnie to imitate those ministers of state who employed this color to thwart curious-minded servants who, with the aid of a mirror, might discover the gist of outward correspondence.

It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie's key in the lock sent his sleepy servant into the lobby. Ronnie stood in the hall tenderly stripping his gloves. "Has anybody been?"

"No, m'sieur."

"Letters?"

"Only one, m'sieur. An account."

He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in. He switched on the light of his desk lamp and sat down. "I have not been out all the evening, François."

"No, m'sieur."

"I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, do you understand?"

"Perfectly, m'sieur."

"Have we any iodine--look for it, damn you, don't gape!"

François hurried out to inspect the contents of the bathroom locker, where were stored such first aid remedies as were kept in the flat. Ronnie looked at his hand and pulled back the cuff of his coat; three ugly red scratches ran from the wrist to the base of the middle fingers. His lips pursed angrily. "Little beast," he said. "Well?"

"There is a bottle--would m'sieur like a bandage?"

"It is not necessary--have you a cat in the flat?--no, well get one tomorrow. You need not keep it permanently. I don't think there will be any trouble. Bring me a hand-mirror from my dressing-table--hurry."

He lifted the shade from the table lamp and, in the mirror, examined his face carefully. His right cheek was red, he imagined finger-marks, but the fine skin had not been torn.

"I have had a quarrel with a lady, François. A common girl--I do not think she will make any further trouble, but if she does--she does not know me anyway."

Ronald's love-making had ended unpleasantly, and he had left the dark aisles of the park in a hurry, before the scream of a frightened girl had brought the police to the spot.

"I was expecting m'sieur to telephone me saying that I might go home," said François. He lodged in Kensington, and sometimes it was convenient for Ronnie, that he should go home early. Two women came in the morning to clean the flat and he usually arrived in time to carry in his master's breakfast from the restaurant attached to the building.

"No, I didn't telephone. Take this glass back and bring me the evening newspapers. That is all. You can clear out."

When the front door closed upon his valet, Ronnie got up and, walking to the window, pulled aside the curtains. The casement was open and he sat down on the padded window-seat, looking out into the darkness. He was not thinking of his night's adventure, being something of a philosopher. The sordidness and the vulgarity of it, would not distress him in any circumstances. He was thinking of Beryl and what John Maxton had said. He knew that she liked him, but he had made no special effort to foster her affection or to evolve from their relationship one more intimate. By his code, she was taboo; lovemaking with Beryl could only lead to marriage, and matrimony was outside of his precarious plans. It pleased him to ponder upon Beryl--perhaps she was in love with him. He had not considered the possibility before. That women only differed by the hats they wore was a working rule of his; but it was strange that the influence he exercised was common to girls so widely separated by birth, education and taste as Beryl was from Evie Colebrook--and others.

Self-disparagement was the last weakness to be expected in Ronald Morelle, and yet, it was true to say that he had restricted his hunting for so long to one variety of game, that he doubted his ability to follow another.

His father had been an enthusiastic hawker, one of the remaining few who followed the sport of kings, and Ronnie invariably thought of his adventuring in terms of falconry. He was a hawk, enseamed, a hawk that swung on its rigid sails, waiting on until the quarry was sprung. Sometimes the quarry was not taken without talons to rend and tear at the embarrassed falcon--he felt the wounds on his hand gingerly. But a trained hawk respects the domestic fowl, even the folk of the dovecot may coo at peace whilst he waits on in the sky. Beryl--? She was certainly lovely. Her figure was delectable. And her mouth, red and full--a Rossetti woman should not have such lips. Was it Rossetti who painted those delicately featured women? He got up and found a big portfolio filled with prints. Yes, it was Rossetti, but Beryl's figure was incomparably more delicious than any woman's that the painter had drawn. He came back to the window, staring out into the night, until, in the gray of dawn, the outline of trees emerged from the void. Then he went to bed and to sleep. He did not move for five hours and then he woke with a horrible sense of desolation. He blinked round the room and at that instant the clock of a church began to strike--the quarters sounded--a pause.

"Toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll--toll." Nine o'clock! With a scream of fear he leaped out of bed, sweating, panic-stricken, forlorn. Nine o'clock! "No--no--Christ--no!"

François, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in. "M'sieur," he gasped.

Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his hands.

"A nightmare, François--a nightmare--get out, blast you!" But he had had no nightmare, could recall nothing of dreams, though he strove all day, his head throbbing. Only he knew that to hear nine o'clock striking had seemed very dreadful.

IX

"I saw your friend Ronald Morelle today," said Moropulos, sending a writhing ring of smoke to the ceiling. Sprawling on a big morris chair, his slippered feet resting on the edge of a fender, he watched the circle break against the ceiling. A pair of stained gray flannel trousers, a silk shirt and a velvet coat that had once been a vivid green; these and an immense green silk cravat, the color of which showed through his beard, constituted his usual morning negligee.

Ambrose Sault, busy with the body of an unfinished safe, which in the rough had come from the maker's hands that morning, released the pressure of his acetylene lamp and removed his goggles before he replied.

He was working in shirt and trousers, and his sleeves were rolled up, displaying the rope-like muscles of his arm. He looked across to his indolent companion and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Mr. Ronald Morelle is neither a friend nor an acquaintance, Moropulos. I don't think I have ever seen him. I have heard of him."

"You haven't missed much by not knowing him," said Moropulos, "but he's a good-looking fellow."

He flicked the ash of his cigarette on to the tiled hearth. "Steppe is still annoyed with me." Sault smiled to himself.

"You think he is justified? Perhaps. I was terribly drunk, but I was happy. Some day, my dear brother, I shall get so drunk that even you will not hold me. I move towards my apotheosis of intoxication certainly and surely. Then I will be irresistible and I shall have no fear of those brute arms of yours." He sucked at the cigarette without speaking for a long time. Sault went back to his work.

"I have often wondered!" said Moropulos at last.

"What?"

"Whether it would have been better if I had followed the advice of my head man that morning I pulled you aboard the sloop. You remember Bob the Kanaka boy? He wanted to knock you on the head and drop you overboard; you were too dangerous, he said. If a government boat had picked us up and you had been found on board as well as--certain other illicit properties, I should have had a double charge against me. I said 'no' because I was sorry for you."

"Because you were afraid of me," said Sault calmly, "I knew you were afraid when I looked into your eyes. Why do you speak of the islands now--we haven't talked about the Pacific since I left the boat."

"I've been thinking about you," confessed Moropulos with a quick sly glance at the man. "Do you realize how--not 'curious'--what is the word?"

"Incurious!" suggested Sault, and Moropulos looked at him with reluctant admiration.

"You are an extraordinary _hombre_, Sault. Merville says you have the _vocabulaire_--that is English or something like it--of an educated man. But to return--do you realize how incurious I am? For example, I have never once asked you, in all our years of knowing one another, why you killed that man?"

"Which man?"

Moropulos laughed softly. "Butcher! Have you killed so many? I refer to the victim for whose destruction the French government sent you to New Caledonia."

Sault stood leaning his back against the table his eyes fixed on the floor. "He was a bad man," he said simply, "I tried to find another way of--stopping him, but he was clever and he had powerful friends, who were government officials. So I killed him. He hired two men to wait for me one night. I was staying at a little hotel on the Plassy Road. They tried to beat me because I had reported this man. Then I knew that the only thing I could do was to kill him. I should do it again."

Moropulos surveyed him from under his lowered brows. "You were lucky to escape 'the widow', my friend," he said, but Ambrose shook his head.

"Nobody was executed in those days; capital punishment had not been abolished, but the Senate refused to vote the executioner his salary. It had the same effect. I was lucky to go to New Caledonia. Cayenne is worse."

"How long did you serve?"

"Eight years and seven months," was the reply.

Moropulos made a little grimace. "I would sooner die," he said and lit another cigarette. Deep in thought he smoked until Ambrose made a move to pick up his Crooke's glasses.

"Don't work. I hate to see you--and hate worse to hear you. What do you think of Morelle?"

"I don't know him; I have heard about him. He is not a good man."

"What is a good man?" Moropulos demanded contemptuously. "He is a lover of ladies, who isn't? He is a cur too. Steppe walks on him. He is scared of Steppe but then everybody is, except you and I." Ambrose smiled.

"Well, perhaps I am--he is such a gorilla. But you are not."

"Why should I be? I am stronger than he."

Moropulos looked at the man's bare arms. "Yes--I suppose it comes down to that. The basis of all fear, is physical. When will the safe be finished?"