Moropulos stumbled to his feet and glared round at his assailant. "I hope to God you love that woman; I hope to God you love her—you do, you old fool! You love her—Ronald Morelle's mistress! I know! She stayed a night at his flat—other nights too—but I saw her as she came out—I photographed her!"
"You photographed her as she came out?" repeated Ambrose dully.
A grin of glee parted the bearded lips.
"I've hurt you, damn you! I've hurt you! And I'm going to tell Steppe and tell her father and everybody!"
"You liar." Sault's voice was gentle. "You filthy man! You saw nothing!"
"I didn't, eh? Oh, I didn't! Morelle admitted it—admitted it to me. And I've got the photograph in a safe place, with a full account of what happened!"
"In the safe!"
Moropulos had made a mistake, a fatal mistake. He realized it even as he had spoken.
"And you—and Morelle—have her in your cruel hands!"
So softly did he speak that it seemed to the man that it was a whisper he heard.