"Come in? Of course you can come in," said Steppe scornfully. "Now hurry, Morelle. We'll give you ten minutes--and put some lights on." "There is enough light." Ronnie's voice was calm and deep. Steppe, turning to find the switch, swung back again and peered at his face. "What's that?" he asked sharply. "I said there wasn't--what have you done to your voice? Here!" He walked across the room and ran his hand down the three switches. Ronnie screwed up his eyes to meet the painful brilliance. He saw Beryl's look of surprise, met the stare of the big man. "He's been crying!" bellowed Steppe in delight. "Huh, huh! Look at him, Beryl, sniveling!" "Mr. Steppe--Jan! How can you!" "How can I? By God, he's been sniveling! Look at his face, look at his eyes!" Steppe slapped his thigh in an ecstasy of joy. "So it got you, huh? I couldn't understand how a fellow like you could see it, without curling up!" His coarseness, the malignity, the heartlessness of the man sickened Beryl Merville. But Ronnie--! He was serene, unmoved by the other's taunts, meeting his eyes steadily. "It was dreadful--so dreadful, Steppe. To see that poor shrieking thing thrust forward, struggling--" "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. Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on the table. He seemed like a man walking in his sleep. Mechanically he took up a miniature sword from a pin tray and held it for a moment in his hand. "Try the luck!" scoffed Steppe. "Shall I go to the play, shan't I go to the play--dear Lord!" For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, watching, saw the big man start. Then the sword was thrust between the pages and the book opened. Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type--frowned. Then he read slowly, sonorously: