Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap enough though they were. He had collected from the Levant the pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville into the category of easy women. He had never doubted that she was bad. There were no other kind of women to Moropulos. Suspecting, before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle. He was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before, perhaps the previous night. Beryl was no less in his eyes than she had been. She was bad. All women were bad, only some were more particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.
He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning he brought news.
Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the house when he arrived.
"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of interesting information." Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away broom and spade before he joined the other.
"You know Beryl Merville, don't you? Steppe is marrying her."
He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something of the sensation which its recital had caused him. But his keen eyes did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came to his face. Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask descended again.
"What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?"
He added one of his own peculiar comments. "Who told you?"
"Ronald Morelle. I don't suppose he minds—now. Lucky devil, Steppe. God! If I had his money!"
Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found the chink in his armor. He was certain of it. It was incredible that a man like Ambrose Sault would feel that way, but he would swear that Ambrose was hurt. Here he was wrong. Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he was not hurt.