Sault was leaning easily, his cheek against the hand that gripped the edge of the open door. He nodded. "I thought he had told you. Of course, he would have taken me back to Noumea for the reward, only he had a cargo on board which he did not want the French to see. I found afterwards that when we called at the Loyalty Island, he tried to sell me back, but couldn't get a price."
He smiled broadly as at a very pleasant recollection, "Moropulos would sell me now," he said, "only I am useful."
"But why—why were you imprisoned?" asked Merville, awe-stricken at the tremendous revelation.
"I killed a man," said Sault. "Good night, doctor."
III
It was a Monday morning and a bank holiday. A few regular habituées of the park to whom the word "holiday" had no especial significance, had overlooked the fact and took their cantering exercise a little selfconsciously under admiring eyes of the people who seldom saw people riding on horseback for the pleasure of it. The day was fine and warm, the hawthorn trees were thickly frosted with their cerise and white blossoms; stiff crocuses flamed in every bed and the banners of the daffodils fluttered in the light breeze that blew halfheartedly across the wide green spaces. On every path the holiday-makers straggled, small mothers laden with large babies; shopboys in garments secretly modelled on the supermen they served; girls from the stores in their bargain-price finery; young men with and without hats, the waitresses of closed teashops, and here and there a pompous member of the bourgeoisie conscious of his superiority to the crowd with which, in his condescension, he mingled.
There is one shady place which faces Park Lane—a stretch of wooded lawn where garden chairs are set six deep. Behind this phalanx there is an irregular fringe of seats, usually in couples, and greatly in request during the darker hours. In the early morning, before the energies of the promenaders are exhausted, the spot is deserted. But two young people occupied chairs this morning. There was nothing in the appearance of the girl that would have made the companionship seem incongruous. In her tailored costume, the unobtrusive hat and the simplicity of her toilette, she might as well have been the youngest daughter of a duke or a workgirl with a judgment in dress. Her clothes would not be "priced" by the most expert of women critics and even stockings and shoes, the last hope of the appraiser, would have baffled. No two glances would have been required to put the man in his class. If he was a thought dandified, it was the dandification of a gentleman. He looked what he was, a man of leisure; the type which is to be found in the Guards or the smartest regiment of cavalry. Yet Ronald Morelle was no soldier. He had served during the war, but had seen none of its devastations. He hated the violence of battle and despised the vulgarity of noisy patriotism. His knowledge of Italian had secured him a quasi-diplomatic appointment, nominally at the Italian headquarters, actually in Rome. He had used every influence that could be employed, pulled every string that could be pulled, to keep him from the disorder of the front line, and fortune had favored him to an extraordinary extent. On the very day he received instructions to report to the regiment with which he had trained, the armistice was signed—he saw the last line of trenches which the British had prepared but never occupied, south of Amiens, saw them from the train that carried him home, and thought that they looked beastly uncomfortable.
The girl by his side would not be alone in thinking him good-looking. He was that rarity, a perfectly featured man. His skin was faultless; his straight nose, his deep-set brown eyes, his irreproachable mouth, were excellent. The hyper-critical might cavil at the almost feminine chin. A small brown moustache was probably responsible for the illusion that he favored the profession of arms.
Evie Colebrook thought he was the most beautiful man in the world, and when he smiled, as he was smiling now, she dared not look at him. He was talking about looks, and she was deliciously flattered. "How ridiculous you are, Mr. Morelle," she protested, "I suppose you have said that to thousands and thousands of girls?"