She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, late as it was. A few minutes afterwards Evie came in. "Where is Sault going?" she asked. "I saw him stalking up the street as though it belonged to him. And oh, Chris, what do you think Ronnie says! Mr. Steppe is marrying that girl who came here--Beryl Merville!" "Fine," said Christina absently. She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow for the man who had gone out into the night. XV "The Parthenon" occupied an acre of land that had once been part of a monastery garden. Until Mr. Moropulos with his passion for Hellenic nomenclature had so named it, the old cottage and its land was known by the curious title: "Brothergod Farm", or as it appeared in ancient deeds, "The Farmstead of Brother-of-God." For Mr. Moropulos there was a peculiar pleasure in setting up in the monastery land such symbols of the pantheistic religion of ancient Greece as he could procure. The house itself consisted of one large kitchen-hall on the ground floor and two bedrooms above. A more modern kitchen had been built on to the main walls by a former tenant. The cottage was well furnished, and unlike his home in Paddington, the floors were carpeted, a piece of needless extravagance from the Greek's point of view, but one which he had not determined, for he had bought the cottage and the furniture together, the owner being disinclined to sell the one without the other. The garden was the glory of the place in the summer. It had a charm even on the chill afternoon that Ambrose deposited his bag at the white gate. A wintry sun was setting redly, turning to the color of wine the white face of the fields. In the hollows of the little valley beyond the cottage, the mists were lying in smoky pools. His hands on the top of the gate, he gazed rapturously at such a sun set as England seldom sees. Turquoise--claret--a blue that was almost green. Drawing a long breath he picked up his bag and walked into the house. "Go down and look after Moropulos. He is weakening on that barley-water diet--he told me himself." Thus Steppe. His servitor obeyed without question, though he knew that the shadow of death was upon him. Moropulos was stretched in a deep mission chair, his slippered feet toward the hearth. And he had begun his libations early. On the floor within reach of his hand, was a tumbler, full of milky white fluid. There was a sugar-basin--a glass jug half filled with water and a tea strainer. Ambrose need not look for the absinthe bottle. The accessories told the story. "Come in--shut the door, you big fool--no you don't!" Moropulos snatched up the tumbler from the floor and gulped down its contents. "Ha-a! That is good, my dear--good! Sit down!" he pointed imperiously to a chair.