XII
Jan Steppe's solitary lunch was served at midday, an hour which ensured his solitude, for he was a man who liked his meals alone. He was nearing the finish of his repast, his enormous appetite unimpaired by his unhappy experience of the morning, when two men mounted the steps of his Berkeley Square residence. They were unknown to one another; one had walked, the other had descended from a taxi, and they stood aside politely.
"You are first, sir," said the taller and healthier of the two.
Their cards went in to Jan Steppe together. He saw the tall man first, jumping up from the table and wiping his fingers on his serviette.
"In the library, huh?"
He looked at himself in the glass, pulled his cravat straight, and smoothed his black hair before he made his way to where the tall man, hat in hand, was waiting his pleasure.
"Well, inspector, what do you want?"
Steppe jerked open the lid of a box and presented its contents for approval.
"Thank you, sir," the inspector of police chose a cigar with care. "It is about this Traction Company of your friend's—I think I remember you saying that you were not in the flotation yourself?"
"No—I bought shares. I have a large number. What about it?"
"Well, sir," said the inspector, speaking slowly, "I am afraid that matters are very serious—very serious indeed. The Public Prosecutor has taken action and a warrant has been issued."
Steppe was prepared for this.
"Have you the warrant?"
The officer nodded.
"Can it be put off until tomorrow?"
"Absolutely impossible, sir. The best I can do is to defer its execution until late tonight. Even then I am taking a risk."
Steppe tugged at his little beard.
"Make it tonight," he said, "I'll undertake that he doesn't leave the country—you won't let him know, of course?"
"No, sir."
If Steppe had offered as much money as he could command to secure the escape of his victim, the bribe would have been rejected. But a postponement of arrest—that was another matter.
"Thank you, inspector."
"Thank you, sir; I shall put a couple of men on to watch him. I must do that, he will never know."
Steppe went back to the dining room very much occupied.
"No, I can't see anybody else—order the car. Who is he?"
He took up the second card.
"Mr. Jeremiah Talbot."
The man who was concerned in the case where Ronald Morelle had figured so ingloriously. Perhaps he could tell him something about Ronnie? Something to his further discredit.
"Bring him in," and when the dapper Mr. Talbot appeared: "I can give you two minutes, Mr.—er—Talbot."
"I've come from a sense of duty," began the injured Jeremiah. "I'm certainly not going to be intimidated by threats from a beast like Ronald Morelle—"
Steppe cut him short.
"Is it about Ronald Morelle? I haven't time to go into your quarrels."
"It is about Ronnie—and Beryl Merville."
Jan Steppe gazed at the man moodily, then into the fire—then back to Jeremiah Talbot.
"Sit down," he said. "Now—"
Talbot told his story plainly and without trimmings, save that his hatred of Ronnie led him to digress from time to time.
"You saw; you are certain?"
"Absolutely, I ran down the stairs. There was a fellow taking photographs outside, a man with a brown beard—"
Moropulos! And the photograph was that of Beryl Merville!
"Go on."
"That is all. I felt it my duty to tell you. If Ronald Morelle attempts to browbeat me, I'll give him in charge—"
"All right—you can go. Thank you."
Jan Steppe had his own peculiar views on women in general, the relationship of Beryl with Ronnie Morelle in particular. Things of that kind happened. He had thought some such affair was possible, and was neither shocked nor outraged. Beryl did not love him, he knew: she loved Morelle. He grinned wickedly.
"The car, sir."
His first call was at the registrar's office. The special license had been secured a week before.
"I can marry you at half-past two," said the registrar, "we like a day's notice, but in an exceptional case—"
Steppe paid.
The Mervilles had not gone in to lunch when he arrived. Beryl was in her room, the doctor working in his study. Steppe wondered what he was working at.
"I want to see Miss Merville—don't disturb the doctor."
She came down, a listless, hopeless girl. Intuitively she knew that he had been told. What would he do: she stopped at the door of her father's study, fighting her fear. Should she tell him first? In the end she came to Steppe.
"Well, Beryl. What is this I hear about Ronald Morelle and you, huh?"
"What have you heard?"
"That you've been his mistress—that's what I've heard. Damned fine news for a bridegroom, huh? Does your father know?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want him to know?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care, huh? Got that way now, so that you don't care. You'll marry me this afternoon."
She looked up.
"This afternoon?"
"Yuh. You'd better tell the doctor; you can tell him anything else you like about Morelle—but if you don't tell, I won't."
Her hand had gone up to her cheek.
"This afternoon—I can't—give me a day—you said it would be tomorrow. I'm not ready."
"This afternoon at half past two. Will you tell the doctor, or shall I?"
She was trying to think.
"I'll tell him. As you wish. This afternoon."
Lunch went into the dining room. Nobody touched food. Steppe had to return to the house to get the wedding ring, send telegrams changing the date of his arrival in Paris, settle such minor details of household management as the change necessitated.
He was at the registrar's office when they came, Dr. Merville and the white-faced girl. In a cab behind the doctor's car travelled two Scotland Yard detectives.
The ceremony was simple. The repetition of a few sentences and Beryl Merville became Beryl Van Steppe. She did not know that his name was Van Steppe until she saw the marriage certificate.
"You can go home with your father. Be ready to leave by the boat train tonight."
So he dismissed her. All the way back to the house the doctor was talking, cheerfully, helpfully. She did not hear him. She was looking at the broad gold ring on her finger.
As they were entering the house her father leaned back, and scrutinized the street.
"I'm sure I've seen those two men before—weren't they waiting outside the registrar's, Beryl?"
Beryl had seen only one man. A man with a black beard, a broad, swarthy face and two eyes wherein burned the fires of hell.