"What!" shouted Steppe, and the girl gasped. "Ambrose Sault—shrieking in fear—"
"You lie!" snarled Steppe. "Sault wasn't that kind. I've seen Maxton and he says he was without fear. You're dreaming, you fool. If it had been you—yes. You'd have squealed—by God! You would have raised Cain! But Ambrose Sault—he was a man. D'ye hear, a man. He's dead and I'm glad. But he was a man."
He held himself in with an effort.
"Get dressed and come out," he ordered roughly.
"I'm so sorry, Ronnie," the girl had come to him, pity and sympathy in her sad face. "It was dreadful for you."
He nodded. "Yes—it was dreadful. I am not coming out tonight, Beryl."
She squeezed his arm gently. "Poor Ronnie!"
"Poor fiddlesticks!" sneered Steppe. "Hurry, cry-baby. I'm not going to wait here all night. What are you afraid of? You shouldn't have seen the damned thing, if you were going to snivel about it. You should have 'Tried the luck'!"
He chuckled as at a joke as he saw the swollen eyes of his victim wander to the bookshelf.
"The luck!" said Ronnie. He was speaking to himself, as he moved to the bookcase.