"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.