"Not at all," said his lips. His face told another story.
Possibly Steppe had issued peremptory instructions. She was certain that if she had accepted his views meekly, the doctor would have named the date and the hour. Steppe may have expressed his desire, also, that she should be married in gray. He was the sort of man who would want his bride to wear gray.
Jan Steppe, for all his wealth and experience, retained in some respects the character of his Boer ancestors. His dearest possession was a large family Bible, crudely illustrated, and this he cherished less for its message (printed in the taal) than for the family records that covered four flyleaves inserted for the purpose. He liked wax fruit under glass shades and there hung in his library crayon enlargements of his parents, heavily framed in gold. He was a member of the Dutch Reformed Church and maintained a pew in the kirk at Heidelberg where he was born and christened. He believed in the rights of husbands to exact implicit obedience from their wives. The ultimate value of women was their prolificacy; he might forgive unfaithfulness; sterility was an unpardonable offense. Springing, as he did, from a race of cattle farmers, he thought of values in terms of stock breeding.
Instinctively Beryl had discovered this: on this discovery her repugnance was based, though she never realized the cause until long afterwards.
The day of the trial was near at hand. Sir John Maxton had had two interviews with his client. After the second, he called on her.
"I haven't seen you since I met him, have I? Your Sault! What is he, in the name of heaven? He fascinates me, Beryl, fascinates me! Sometimes I wish I had never taken the brief—not because of the hopelessness of it—it is hopeless, you know—but—"
"But?" she repeated, when he paused, puzzling to express himself clearly.
"He is amazing: I have never met anybody like him. I am not particularly keen on my fellows, perhaps I know them too well and have seen too much of their meannesses, their evilness. But Sault is different. I went to discuss his case and found myself listening to his views on immortality. He says that what we call immortality can be reduced to mathematical formulæ. He limited the infinite to a circle, and convinced me. I felt like a fourth form boy listening to a 'brain' and found myself being respectful! But it wasn't that—it was a sweetness, a clearness—something Christlike. Queer thing to say about a man who has committed two murders, both in cold blood, but it is a fact. Beryl, it is impossible to save him, it is only fair to tell you. I cannot help feeling that if we could get at the character of this man Moropulos, he would have a chance, but he absolutely refuses to talk of Moropulos. 'I did it,' he says, 'what is the use? I shot him deliberately. He was drunk: I was in no danger from him. I shot him because I wanted him to die. When I walked over to where he lay, he was dead. If he had been alive I should have shot him again.' What can one do? If he had been anybody else, I should have retired from the case.
"There is a safe in this case, probably you have read about it in the newspapers. It was found in the Greek's house, and is a sort of secret repository. At any rate, it cannot be opened except by somebody who knows the code word. I suspected Sault of being one who could unlock the door and challenged him. He did not deny his knowledge but declined to give me the word. He never lies: if he says he doesn't know, it is not worth while pressing him because he really doesn't know. Beryl, would your father have any knowledge of that safe?"
She shook her head. "It is unlikely, but I will ask him. Father says that Ronnie is going to the trial. Is he a witness?"