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.