"Now listen. They will make enquiries and it is perfectly certain that they will trace you as being a friend of Moropulos. I want to keep out of it, and so do you. At present they cannot connect me with the case except that I had dealings with Moropulos. So had hundreds of others. If they get busy with you they will turn you inside out; I don't want you to get it into your head that I'm trying to save you trouble. I'm not. You could roast in hell and I'd not turn the hose on to you! I'm thinking of myself and all the trouble I should have if the police got you scared. Sault didn't come here, huh? Was anybody here beside you?" he asked quickly. "Only François." "Your servant!" Steppe frowned. "Can you trust him?" Ronnie smiled. "François is discreet," he said complacently. A shadow passed across Steppe's dark face. "About the women who come here, yes; but with the police? That is different. Bring him in." "I assure you, my dear fellow--" "Bring him here!" roared the other. Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily. "François, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, huh?" "Yes, M'sieur." "You had no visitors, huh?" François hesitated. "No visitors, François: you didn't open the door to Sault--you know Sault?" The man nodded. "And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was here, you will tell them the truth--you did not see him. Your master had no visitors at all; you saw nobody and heard nobody." He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, fingering the notes that filled one compartment. François' eyes were on the note case, too. "Nobody came, M'sieur. I'll swear. I was in the pantry all evening." "Good," said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crushing them into a ball. "Do you want to see me, today?" asked Ronnie, and his uncomfortable guest glared. "Not today. Nor tomorrow, nor any day. Where were you last night?" François retired in his discretion. "I went to Brighton--" "You went to Ritti's--that--!" He did not attempt any euphemism. Madame Ritti's elegant establishment he described in two pungent words. "God! You're--what are you? I'm pretty tough, huh? Had my gay times and known a few of the worst. But I've drawn a line somewhere. Sault in prison and Moropulos dead--and you at Ritti's! What a louse you are!" He stalked into the hall, shouted for François and dropped the little paper ball into his hand. François closed the door on him respectfully. "A beast--!" said Ronnie, disgusted. V Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor interviewed Ambrose Sault in his airy cell. He expected to find a man broken by his awful position. He found instead, a cheerful client who, when he was ushered into the cell, was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper with minute figures. A glance at the paper showed the wondering officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in mathematics. It was, in fact, a differential equation of a high and complex character.