IX
That same morning Mr. Moropulos asked a question of Ambrose Sault.
"What exposure should you give to a photograph taken, say, soon after eight o'clock in the morning?"
"What sort of a morning?"
"This morning."
Ambrose glanced out of the window.
"You could get a snap shot on a twenty-fifth of a second," he said.
Mr. Moropulos produced a folding kodak from his pocket. "Would this stop be wide enough?"
Ambrose took the camera in his hand. "Yes," he said. "What were you taking, a scene or a figure?"
"A figure," said Mr. Moropulos, "a lady in evening dress."
Ambrose smiled. "Eight o'clock is a funny time to photograph a lady in evening dress," he said.
"An amusing time—if one hadn't been waiting up all night to take it. I was here at five. Yes—I came back for the camera. I took a chance of missing the lady, but even if I had it wouldn't have mattered. But eight o'clock!" he laughed gleefully, "how very obliging. Sault, my Ambrosial man, I am going to sleep."
"I think you need it," said Ambrose.
He did all the work of the house, even to making Mr. Moropulos' bed and he was glad of the opportunity to "spring-clean" the sitting-room. He only interrupted his labors to cut a crust of bread and a slice of cheese for his lunch.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the telephone bell rang for the first time that day. "Is that Mr. Moropulos—is that you, Mr. Sault?"
"Yes, lady."
He recognized her voice instantly and his heart leaped within him.
"I'm so glad—will you come to the house please?"
"Yes—I'll come right away." He hung up the receiver as Moropulos strolled in yawning.
"He-e! Who was the caller?"
"A friend of mine," said Sault.
"Didn't know you had any friends—are you going? Make me some coffee before you go, Sault."
"Make it yourself," said Ambrose.
Moropulos grinned after him. "I'd give a lot of money to stick a knife into that big chest of yours, my good Ambrose," he said pleasantly.
Marie opened the door to the untidy visitor, showing him straight to the drawing-room and Beryl came halfway to him, taking his hand in both of hers.
"I'm so glad you've come—I had to send for you—do you mind? I want to talk to you—about nothing in particular—I'm nervy. Can't you tell from my hand?"
The hand in his was shaking, he felt the quiver of it. And she looked pale. Why had she sent for him? She was amazed at herself. Perhaps it was his strength she wanted; a rock on which she might rebuild the shattered fabric of her reason. She had been thinking of him all the afternoon. Ronnie never came to her mind. He was incidental—reality lay with the coarse-featured man whom she had likened to a Cæsar.
"I don't want you to do anything for me, except be here. Just for a little while." She was pleading like a frightened child.
"I am here—I will stay here until you want me to go," said Ambrose, and smiled into her eyes.
"Mr. Sault, I do so wish to talk about something. It won't hurt you will it?" She had only released his hands to pull a chair forward. Opposite to him she sat, this time both of her hands in his. Why? She gave up asking the question.
"You killed somebody, is it true—I knew it was true before I asked you. Did it injure you—make you think less of yourself—did you loathe the man you killed because he made you do it? You are looking at me so strangely—you don't think I am mad, do you?"
"I don't think you are mad. No, I didn't even hate the man. He deserved death. I did not wish to kill him, but there was no other way. There must be that definite end to some problems—death. There is no other. I believe implicitly in it—destruction. A man who is so vile that he kills in his greed or his lust! Who takes an innocent and a helpful life—helpful to the world and its people—you must destroy him. The law does this, so that the brain behind his wicked hands shall not lead him to further mischief. If you have a sheep-dog that worries sheep you shoot him. There is no other way. Or he will breed other sheep dogs with the same vice. Most problems are soluble by various processes. Some of them drastic, some of them commonplace. A few, a very few, can only be ended that way. My man was one of these. I won't tell you the story—he was a bad man and I killed him. But I didn't hate him, nor hate myself. And I think no less of myself—and no more. I did what I thought was right—I've never regretted it, but I've never been proud of it."
She listened, fascinated. The hands in his were quiet now, there was a hue in her cheeks.
"How fine to feel like that—to detach yourself—but why should you regret? You injured no one. Except the man and—was he married?"
He nodded. "I didn't know at the time. She came forward afterwards and paid the expenses of my defense—she hated him—it was very sad."
They were quiet together until she lifted her head and spoke. "Mr. Sault—I'm going to ask you another strange question. Have you, in all your life, ever been in love?"
"Yes," he said instantly.
"With a woman, just because she is a woman? As I might love a man because he has all the outward attractions of a man? Have you loved her just for her beauty and despised her mean soul and her vicious mind, and—and despising—still loved?"
She hung upon his words, and when he said "no" her heart sank.
"No—no, I couldn't do that. That would be—horrible!"
He shuddered. She had made Ambrose Sault shudder! Ambrose Sault who spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered at something, which, to him, was worse than murder! The fragrance of sin which had held to her and supported her through the day, was stale and sour and filthy. She shrank away from him, but he held her hands tightly.
"Let me go, please," her voice sounded faint.
"In a moment—look at me, lady."
She raised her eyes to his and they held them.
"I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed I would say; I never thought the words would come to me. Look at me, lady, a rough man—old—I'm more than fifty, ugly, with an old man's shape and an old man's hands. Illiterate—I love you. I shall never see you again—I love you. You are beautiful—the most beautiful lady I have seen. But it isn't that. There is something in you that I love—I don't know what—soul—spirit—individuality. I hope I haven't revolted you—I don't think I have."
"Ambrose!" She clutched at the hands he was drawing away. "I must tell you—there is nothing to love but what you see, there is no soul—no soul—nothing but weakness and a pitiful cowardice. I love a man who is like that, too. Foul, foul! But beautiful to look at—and, Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take."
Not a muscle of his face moved.
"I have given him everything—this very day—that is why I sent for you. There must be something in what you say—a spirit in me responds to you—oh, Ambrose, I love him!"
She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. There was a scent of some pungent oil—turpentine. But he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair.
"You think I'm—what do you think I am?" she asked.
"You know," he patted her shoulder gently. "I suppose you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this—I am not hurt. I can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn't like me to say that."
He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes. "How very beautiful it is!" he said.
She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears.
"I said I wouldn't see you again. Perhaps I won't—but if you want me send for me."
She dried her eyes. "I'm a weakling—I wish I was wicked and didn't care—I don't care, really. What has happened is—" she shrugged, "it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me—nearly driven me mad. You are going now, Ambrose—that is so lovely in you—you even know when to go!"
She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she knew that he felt as she did.
"Come to me when I want you—I shall be busy inventing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose." When he had gone, she realized that no man's name had been mentioned. Perhaps he knew.