"Toll—toll—toll—toll—toll—toll—toll—toll—toll." Nine o'clock! With a scream of fear he leaped out of bed, sweating, panic-stricken, forlorn. Nine o'clock! "No—no—Christ—no!"
François, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in. "M'sieur," he gasped.
Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his hands.
"A nightmare, François—a nightmare—get out, blast you!" But he had had no nightmare, could recall nothing of dreams, though he strove all day, his head throbbing. Only he knew that to hear nine o'clock striking had seemed very dreadful.
IX
"I saw your friend Ronald Morelle today," said Moropulos, sending a writhing ring of smoke to the ceiling. Sprawling on a big morris chair, his slippered feet resting on the edge of a fender, he watched the circle break against the ceiling. A pair of stained gray flannel trousers, a silk shirt and a velvet coat that had once been a vivid green; these and an immense green silk cravat, the color of which showed through his beard, constituted his usual morning negligee.
Ambrose Sault, busy with the body of an unfinished safe, which in the rough had come from the maker's hands that morning, released the pressure of his acetylene lamp and removed his goggles before he replied.
He was working in shirt and trousers, and his sleeves were rolled up, displaying the rope-like muscles of his arm. He looked across to his indolent companion and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mr. Ronald Morelle is neither a friend nor an acquaintance, Moropulos. I don't think I have ever seen him. I have heard of him."