"You'll have no more of that stuff tonight, Moropulos." Ambrose gathered up the bottle and took it into the kitchen. The Greek chuckled as he heard it smash. He had a store--a little locker in the tool-shed; a few bottles in his bedroom. "Come back!" he roared. "Come, you big pig! Come and talk about Beryl. Ah! What a girl! What a face for that hairy gorilla to kiss!" Sault heard, but went on filling a kettle and presently the shouts subsided. "When I call you, come!" commanded Moropulos sulkily as Ambrose returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hand. "Drink this," said Ambrose. Moropulos took the cup and saucer and flung them and their contents into the fireplace. "For children, for young ladies, but not for a son of the south--an immortal, Sault! For young ladies, yes--for Beryl the beautiful--" A hand gripped him by the beard and jerked his head up. The pain was exquisite--his neck was stretched, a thousand hot needles tortured his chin and cheek where the beard dragged. For the space of a second he looked into the gray eyes, fathomless. Then Ambrose broke his grip and the man staggered to his feet mouthing, grimacing, but silent. Nor did Ambrose speak. His eyes had spoken, and the half-drunken man dropped back into his chair, cowering. When Sault returned to the room, after unpacking his bag, Moropulos was still sitting in the same position. "Do you want anything cooked for your dinner?" "There is--fish--and chops. You'll find them in the kitchen." He sat, breathing quickly, listening to the sizzle and splutter of frying meat. Ambrose Sault shut the door that led into the kitchen and the Greek stood up listening. From beneath a locker he produced a bottle, quietly he took up the water-jug and sugar and stole softly up to his room. He locked the door quietly, put down his impedimenta and opened a drawer of an old davenport. Underneath an assortment of handkerchiefs and underwear, he found an ivory-handled revolver, a slender-barrelled, plated thing, that glittered in his hand. It was loaded; he made sure of that. His hatred of Ambrose Sault was an insensate obsession. He had pulled him by the beard, an intolerable insult in any circumstances. But Sault was a nigger--he sat down on the only chair in the room and prepared a drink. "Are you coming down? I've laid the table and the food is ready," Ambrose called from the bottom of the stairs. "Go to hell!" "Come along, Moropulos. What is the sense of this? I am sorry I touched you." "You'll be more sorry," screamed the Greek. His voice sounded deafeningly near for he had opened the door. "You dog, you--" Mr. Moropulos had a wider range of expletives than most men. Ambrose listened without listening.