Pulling out a chair from the table, he sat down and began his dinner. He heard the feet of the drunkard pacing the floor above, heard the rumble of his voice and then the upper door was flung violently open and the feet of Moropulos clattered down the stairs. He had taken off his coat and his waistcoat. His beard flowed over a colored silk shirt, beautifully embroidered. But it was the thing in his hand that Ambrose saw, and, seeing, rose. The man's face was white with rage; an artery in his neck was pulsating visibly. "You pulled my beard--you ignorant negro--you nigger thing--you damned convict! You're going on your knees to lick my boots--my boots, not Beryl's, you old fool--" Ambrose did not move from the position he had taken on the other side of the table. "Down, down, down!" shrieked Moropulos, his pistol waving wildly. Ambrose Sault obeyed, but not as Moropulos had expected. Suddenly he dropped out of view behind the edge of the white cloth and in the same motion he launched himself under the table, toward the man. In a second he had gripped him by the ankles and thrown him--the pistol dropped almost into his hands. Moropulos stumbled to his feet and glared round at his assailant. "I hope to God you love that woman; I hope to God you love her--you do, you old fool! You love her--Ronald Morelle's mistress! I know! She stayed a night at his flat--other nights too--but I saw her as she came out--I photographed her!" "You photographed her as she came out?" repeated Ambrose dully. A grin of glee parted the bearded lips. "I've hurt you, damn you! I've hurt you! And I'm going to tell Steppe and tell her father and everybody!" "You liar." Sault's voice was gentle. "You filthy man! You saw nothing!" "I didn't, eh? Oh, I didn't! Morelle admitted it--admitted it to me. And I've got the photograph in a safe place, with a full account of what happened!" "In the safe!" Moropulos had made a mistake, a fatal mistake. He realized it even as he had spoken. "And you--and Morelle--have her in your cruel hands!" So softly did he speak that it seemed to the man that it was a whisper he heard. Sault held in his hands the pistol. He looked at it thoughtfully. "You must not hurt her," he said. Moropulos stood paralyzed for a moment, then made a dart for the door. His hand was on the latch when Ambrose Sault shot him dead. _BOOK THE THIRD_ I Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by the door. He seemed to be settling some difficulty which had arisen in his mind, for the gloom passed from his face and pocketing the revolver slowly, he walked across to where Paul Moropulos lay. He was quite dead. "I am glad," said Ambrose.