Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took out the pistol again and examined it. There were five live cartridges. He only needed one. In the kitchen he put on the heavy overcoat he had been wearing when he arrived. Returning, he lit the candle of a lantern and went out into the back of the house where Moropulos had erected a small army hut to serve as his garage. He broke the lock and wheeled out the little car. Ambrose Sault was in no hurry: his every movement was deliberate. He tested the tank, filled it, put water in the radiator; then started the engines and drove the car through the stable gates on to the main road, before, leaving the engines running, he paid another visit to the house and blew out the lamp. As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing by the car. It proved to be a villager. "Somebody heard a shot going off up this way. I told 'un it was only Mr. Moropuly's old car backfiring." "It was not that," said Ambrose as he stepped into the car. "Good night." He drove carefully, because his life was very precious this night. He thought of Christina several times, but without self-pity. Christina would get well--and her love would endure. It was of the quality which did not need the flesh of him. Ronald Morelle must die. There was no other solution. He must die, not because he had led the woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and, honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose. Ronald's offense was his knowledge. He knew: he had told. He would tell again. A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking. He was asked to produce a license and, when none was forthcoming, his name and address were taken. Ambrose gave both truthfully. It was a lucky chance for the policeman. Afterwards he gave evidence and became important: was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered at a weeping man. That was seven weeks later--in March, when the primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm. Ambrose knew Ronald's flat. He had gone there once with Moropulos, and he had waited outside the door whilst Moropulos was interviewing Ronnie. Nine o'clock was striking as the car drew up before the flat--Ronnie heard it through the closed casement. Nine o'clock? He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. What was the cause of that cold trickling sensation--his mouth went dry. He used to feel like that in air raids. A bell rung. "François--" Louder, "François!" "Pardon, m'sieur." François came out of his pantry half awake. "The door." Who was it, thought Ronnie--he jumped up. "What do you want, Sault?" Ambrose looked round at the waiting servant. "You," he said. "I want to know the truth first--that man should go." Ronnie flushed angrily. "I certainly cannot allow you to decide whether my servant goes or remains. Have you come from Mr. Steppe?"