"It was not that," said Ambrose as he stepped into the car. "Good night."
He drove carefully, because his life was very precious this night. He thought of Christina several times, but without self-pity. Christina would get well—and her love would endure. It was of the quality which did not need the flesh of him. Ronald Morelle must die. There was no other solution. He must die, not because he had led the woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and, honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose. Ronald's offense was his knowledge. He knew: he had told. He would tell again.
A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking. He was asked to produce a license and, when none was forthcoming, his name and address were taken. Ambrose gave both truthfully. It was a lucky chance for the policeman. Afterwards he gave evidence and became important: was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered at a weeping man. That was seven weeks later—in March, when the primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm.
Ambrose knew Ronald's flat. He had gone there once with Moropulos, and he had waited outside the door whilst Moropulos was interviewing Ronnie.
Nine o'clock was striking as the car drew up before the flat—Ronnie heard it through the closed casement.
Nine o'clock? He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. What was the cause of that cold trickling sensation—his mouth went dry. He used to feel like that in air raids.
A bell rung.
"François—" Louder, "François!"
"Pardon, m'sieur." François came out of his pantry half awake.
"The door." Who was it, thought Ronnie—he jumped up.