Ambrose hesitated. Perhaps it was a confidential message from Steppe, thought Ronnie. This uncouth fellow often served as a messenger. "Wait outside the door, François--no, outside the lobby door." "I haven't come from Steppe." Suddenly Ronnie remembered. "Steppe said you had gone to the country with Moropulos--where is he?" "Dead." Ronnie staggered back, his pale face working. He had a horror of death. "Dead?" he said hollowly, and Sault nodded. "I killed him." A gasp. "God--! Why!" "He knew--he said you had told him. He knew because he was outside your flat all night and photographed her as she went out." The blood of the listener froze with horror. "I--I don't know what you're talking about--who is the 'she'?" "Beryl Merville." "It is a lie--absurd--Miss Merville--! Here?" He found his breath insufficient for his speech. Something inside him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed. "It is true--she was here. She told me." "You--you're mad! Told you! It is a damned lie. She was never here. If Moropulos said that, I'm glad you've killed him!" "He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know about that because he spoke to you and you admitted it all." "I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken to me. I would have killed him if he had. The story of the photograph is a lie--he invented it. That was his way--where is this picture?" Ambrose did not answer. Was this man speaking the truth? His version was at least plausible. He must go at once to the house in Paddington and get the envelope--it must be destroyed. How would he know if Ronnie was speaking the truth? Ronald Morelle, his teeth biting into his lip, saw judgment wavering. He was fighting for his life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul quivered. "Where is that picture--? I tell you it is an invention of that swine. He guessed-- Even to you I will not admit that there is a word of truth in the story." He had won. The hand that was thrust into the overcoat pocket returned empty. "I will come back," said Sault. When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the number plate of his car. He took no notice, but drove off. He had to break a window to get into the house at Paddington. He had forgotten to bring his keys. That delayed his entrance for some while. He was in the room, and his fingers on the dial of the combination, when three men walked through the door. He knew who they were. "I have a revolver in my pocket, gentlemen," he said. "I have killed Paul Moropulos, the owner of this house." They snapped handcuffs upon his wrists. "Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?" asked the tall inspector in charge. He had been reading a typewritten notice affixed to the top. "Yes, sir," said Ambrose Sault. "What is it?" "I am not at liberty to say." "What is in it--money?" No answer. The officer beckoned forward one of the uniformed men who seemed to fill the hall.