Dr. Merville returned to his study shaking his head. He couldn't understand Beryl. So Ronnie approved! She sat, cheek in hand, elbow on knee, looking at the fire. Steppe did not seem so impossible after that. Ronnie! He would approve, of course. What terrors he must have endured when he discovered that Steppe was his rival! What mental agonies! An idea came to her. She went down to the hall where the telephone was and gave his number. "Hello--yes." "Is that you, Ronnie?" "Yes--is that you, Beryl?" his voice changed. She detected an anxious note. "How are you--I meant to come round yesterday. I haven't seen you for an age." "Father says that you think I ought to marry Steppe." There was an interval. "Did you hear what I said?" she asked. "Yes--of course it is heartbreaking for me--I feel terrible about it all--but it is a good match, Beryl. He is one of the richest men in town--it is for your good, dear." She nodded to the transmitter and her lips twitched. "I can't marry him without telling him, can I, Ronnie?" She heard his gasp. "For God's sake, don't be so mad, Beryl! You're mad! What good would it do--it would break your father's heart--you don't want to do that, do you? It would be selfish and nothing good could come of it--" She was smiling delightedly at her end of the wire, but this he could not know. "I will think about it," she said. "Beryl--Beryl--don't go away. You mustn't, you really mustn't--I'm not thinking about myself--it is you--your father. You won't do such a crazy thing, will you? Promise me you won't--I am entitled to some consideration." "I'll think about it," she repeated and left him in a state of collapse. XIV It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraordinary callers at his bleak house in Paddington. They came furtively, after dark, and were careful to note whether or not they were followed. Since few of these made appointments and were unexpected, it was essential that the Greek should be indoors up to ten o'clock. Therefore, he failed in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him away from business. He was maintained in comfort by Jan Steppe to receive these shy callers. Mr. Moropulos was not, as might be supposed, engaged in a career of crime, as we understand crime. The people who came and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were respectable persons who followed various occupations in the city and would have swooned at the thought of stealing a watch or robbing a safe. But it was known in and about Threadneedle Street, Old Broad Street and in various quaint alleyways and passages where bareheaded clerks abound, that information worth money could be sold for money. A chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a board room, heard between the opening and closing of a door; a peep at a letter, any of these scraps of gossip could be turned into solid cash by the bearded Greek.