IV
Did Beryl know—should she know? Suppose she went to her and told her the crazy theory she had? Beryl would doubt her sanity. No, no good would come of precipitancy. She must be sure, thought Christina, lying on her bed, her hand at her mouth as though she feared that she might involuntarily cry her news aloud.
No particulars of Ambrose Sault's death had appeared in the press. The longest notice was one which, after a brief reference to the execution, went on to give details concerning the crime. Practically the references to the execution were similar:
"Ambrose Sault was executed at Wechester Jail yesterday morning for the murder of Paul Moropulos. The condemned man walked with a firm step to the gallows and death was instantaneous. He made no statement. Billet was the executioner."
The hangman always received his puff. When she had been staying with Beryl, she had met Sir John Maxton; he had returned on the morning of the execution and had come straight to the house. He had said nothing that gave her any impression except that Ambrose had died bravely. Would he have heard anything later? She made up her mind, dressed and went out. There was a telephone a block away and she got through to Sir John's chambers in the Temple. To her relief he answered the telephone himself.
"Is that you, Sir John? It is Christina Colebrook—yes—I'm very well. Can I see you, Sir John? Any time, now if you wish. I could be with you in twenty minutes—oh, thank you—thank you so much."
A bus dropped her in Fleet Street and she walked through the Temple grounds to the ugly and dreary buildings where he rented chambers. They were on the ground floor, happily; Christina was still a semi-invalid.
"You've come to ask me about Sault!" he said as soon as she was announced.
"Why do you think that?" she smiled.
"I guessed. I suppose Ronnie has told everybody about the ghastly business. It seems impossible, impossible that he could have shown the white feather as he did," said Sir John. "I can hardly believe it is true, and yet when I got into touch with the deputy governor, he told me very much the same story—that one moment Sault was calm and literally smiling at death; the very next instant he was—pitiful, blubbering like a child. I hate telling you this, because I know you were such dear friends, but—you want to know?"
She inclined her head.
"Nothing else happened?"
"Nothing—oh, yes, there was one curious circumstance. In the midst of his amazing outburst Sault cried: 'Ronald Morelle of Balliol!' Did he know that Ronnie was at Balliol? I can only imagine that by this time he hadn't any idea at all what he was talking about."
She rose.
"Thank you, Sir John," she said quietly, "you have saved my reason."
"In what way?" His curiosity was piqued.
"There was something I had to believe—or go mad. That is cryptic, isn't it? But I can't be plain, for fear you think I've lost my reason already!"
Sir John was too polite to press her, too much of a lawyer to reveal his curiosity. He went on to talk of Sault.
"He was certainly the best man I have met in my life. By 'best' I particularly refer to his moral character, his ideals, his sense of divinity. His courage humbled me, his philosophy left me feeling like a child of six. I must believe what I am told, so I accept the story about his having made a scene on the scaffold, without question. But there is an explanation for it, that I'll swear, and an explanation creditable to Ambrose Sault."
Christina went home with a light heart, convinced.
She had begun a letter to Beryl and was debating half-way through whether she would as much as hint her peculiar theory, when Evie burst into the room cyclonically, her eyes blazing.
"He's been here! Mother said so—you were talking to him for a long time! Oh, Chris, what did he say—wasn't it wonderful of him to come? Don't you think he is handsome, Chris? Own up—isn't he a gorgeous man? Did he ask after me, was he very disappointed when he found I was out—?"
"I'll take your questions in order," said Christina, solemnly ticking them off on her finger. "He has been here, if he is Ronnie; he said a lot of things. It was certainly wonderful for me that he came. He asked after you, but didn't seem to be cast down to find you were out. Was that the lot? I hope so."
"But Christina!" she was quivering with excitement. "What do you think of him?"
"I—think—he—is—sublime!"
Evie glanced at her resentfully, suspecting sarcasm; saw that her sister was in earnest, and seeing this, was confounded.
"He is very nice," she said less enthusiastic, "yes—a dear—did you really get on with him, Chris? How queer! And after all that you've said about him! Didn't your conscience prick you—?"
Christina sent her red locks flying in a vigorous head-shake.
"No, it wasn't conscience," she said.
Evie, from being boisterously interested, became quietly distrait.
"Of one thing I am certain," volunteered Christina, "and it is that he will never behave dishonorably or give you, or for the matter of that, mother and me, one hour's real pain."
"No—I'm sure he won't," said Evie awkwardly, the more awkward, because she was trying so hard not to be.
"Such a man couldn't be mean. I am certain of that," Christina went on. "Evie, I am not scared about you any more—and I was, you know. Just scared! Sometimes when you came back from seeing Ronnie, I dared not look at you for fear—I didn't exactly know what I feared. Now—well, I feel that you are in good hands, darling, and I shall not be thinking every time you go out: 'I wonder if she will come back again?'"
Evie's face was burning. If she had spoken, she would have betrayed herself. She became interested in the contents of a hanging cupboard and hummed a careless tune, shakily.
"Are you singing or is it the hinge?" asked Christina.
"You're very rude—I was singing—humming."
"There must be music in the family somewhere," said Christina, "probably it goes back to our lordly ancestor—"
"I told Teddy about that, about Lord Fransham—"
"Did you tell Ronnie?"
Evie wondered if she should say. Christina was so excellently disposed toward him that it would be a pity to excite her resentment.
"Yes—he laughed. He said everybody has a lord in his family if he only goes back far enough. Teddy thought it was wonderful and he said—you'll laugh?"
"I swear I won't."
"Well—he said that he knew that I had aristocratic blood by my instep, it is so arched. And it is you know, Chris, just look!"
"Shurrup!" said Christina vulgarly.
"Well—he did. Teddy isn't half the fool you think him. I don't exactly mean you, Chris, but people. His father has a tremendous farm, miles and miles of it. He sent Teddy over here for six months. What do you think for?"
Christina couldn't think.
"To find a wife!" said Evie. "Isn't it quaint? And do you know that Teddy is staying at the Carlton-Grand. I thought he was living with his aunt in Tenton Street and I only discovered by accident that he was staying at a swagger hotel. He said he would write and tell his father about our lord."
She sighed heavily.
"I like Teddy awfully. He is so grateful for—well, for anything I can do for him, such as putting his tie straight and telling him about things."
"Why don't you marry Teddy?"
A few weeks ago Evie would have snorted scornfully. Now she was silent for a long time. She sighed again.
"That is impossible. I'm too fond of Ronnie and I believe in keeping—in keeping my word. Teddy's father is building a beautiful little house for him. And Teddy says that he has a quiet horse that a girl could ride. He believes in riding astride, so do I. I've never ridden, but that is the way I should ride—through the corn for miles and miles. You can see the mountains from Teddy's farm. They are covered with snow, even in the summer. There is a place called Banff where you can have a perfectly jolly time, dances and all that. In the winter, when it is freezingly cold, Teddy goes to Vancouver, where it is quite warm. He has an orange-farm somewhere."
For the third time she sighed. Christina in her wisdom, made no comment.