Sault held in his hands the pistol. He looked at it thoughtfully. "You must not hurt her," he said.
Moropulos stood paralyzed for a moment, then made a dart for the door. His hand was on the latch when Ambrose Sault shot him dead.
BOOK THE THIRD
I
Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by the door. He seemed to be settling some difficulty which had arisen in his mind, for the gloom passed from his face and pocketing the revolver slowly, he walked across to where Paul Moropulos lay. He was quite dead.
"I am glad," said Ambrose.
Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took out the pistol again and examined it. There were five live cartridges. He only needed one. In the kitchen he put on the heavy overcoat he had been wearing when he arrived. Returning, he lit the candle of a lantern and went out into the back of the house where Moropulos had erected a small army hut to serve as his garage. He broke the lock and wheeled out the little car. Ambrose Sault was in no hurry: his every movement was deliberate. He tested the tank, filled it, put water in the radiator; then started the engines and drove the car through the stable gates on to the main road, before, leaving the engines running, he paid another visit to the house and blew out the lamp.
As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing by the car. It proved to be a villager.
"Somebody heard a shot going off up this way. I told 'un it was only Mr. Moropuly's old car backfiring."