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  "Your name is Anworth, isn't it, Beautiful? And I recently had the pleasure of socking you on the jaw-one night when you followed me from the Calumet."

  "I never seed yer before, guv'nor-strite, I never. I'm dahn an' aht-starvin'--"

  Simon reached out a long, silk-sheathed arm for the cigarette box-he had heaved the specimen into the sitting room.

  "Tell me the old, old story," he sighed.

  "I 'adn't 'ardly a bite to eat since Friday," Johnny whined on mechanically. "This is the fust time I ever went wrong. I 'ad ter do it, guv'nor--"

  He stopped, as the Saint turned. Incredulous audiences Johnny Anworth had had, indignant audiences, often, and even sympathetic audiences, sometimes-but he had never met such a bleak light in any outraged householder's eyes as he met then. If he had been better informed, he would have known that there were few things to which the Saint objected more than being interrupted in his beauty sleep. This Simon explained.

  "Also, you didn't come here on your own. You were sent." The cold blue eyes never left Johnny's face. "By a man named Lemuel," Simon added, in a sudden snap, and read the truth before the crook had opened his mouth to deny it.

  "I never 'eard of 'im, guv'nor. I was near starvin'--"

  "What were you told to do?"

  "I never--"

  On those words, Johnny's voice trailed away. For he had heard, quite distinctly, the stealthy footfall in the passage outside.

  The Saint also had heard it. He had not expected a man like Johnny Anworth to be on a job like that alone.

  "You're telling naughty stories, Precious. . . ."

  The Saint spoke gently and dreamily, stepping back towards the door with the silence of a hunting leopard; but there was neither gentleness or dreaminess in the eyes that held the burglar half hypnotized, and Johnny did not need to be told what would happen to him if he attempted to utter a warning.

  "Naughty, naughty stories-you've brought me out of my beautiful bed to tell me those. I think I shall have to be very cross with you, Johnny--"

  And then, like an incarnate whirlwind, the Saint whipped open the door and sprang out into the passage. Baldy Mossiter had a gun, but the Saint was too quick for him, and Baldy only just relaxed his trigger finger in time to avoid shooting himself in the stomach.

  "Step right in and join the merry throng, Hairy Harold," murmured Simon; and Mossiter obeyed, the Saint speeding him on his way.

  That Johnny Anworth, having started forward with the idea of taking the Saint in the rear, should have been directly in the trajectory of his chief, was unfortunate for both parties. Simon smiled beatifically upon them, and allowed them to regain their feet under their own power.

  "You wait, Templar!" Mossiter snarled; and the Saint nodded encouragingly.

  "Were you starving, too?" he asked.

  There was some bad language-so bad that the Saint, who was perhaps unduly sensitive about these things, found it best to bind and gag both his prisoners.

  "When you decide to talk, you can wag your ears," he said.

  There was a gas fire in the sitting room, and this the Saint lighted, although the night was already torrid enough. In front of the burners, with ponderous deliberation, he set an ornamental poker to heat.

  The two men watched with bulging eyes.

  Simon finished his cigarette; and then he solemnly tested the temperature of the poker, holding it near his cheek as a laundryman tests an iron.

  "Do you sing your song, Baldy?" he inquired-so mildly that Mossiter, who had an imagination, understood quite clearly that his own limits of bluff were likely to be reached long before the Saint's.

  The story came with some profane trimmings which need not be recorded.

  "It was Lemuel. We were to cosh you, and take your girl away. Lemuel said he knew for certain you'd got a lot of money hidden away, and we were going to make you pay it all over-while we held the girl to keep you quiet. We were going shares in whatever we got-- What are you doing?"

  "Phoning for the police," said the Saint calmly. "You must not commit burglary-particularly with guns."

  The law arrived in ten minutes in the shape of a couple of men from Vine Street; but before they came the Saint had made some things painfully plain.

  "I'd guessed what you told me, but I always like to be sure. And let me tell you, you pair of second-hand sewer-skunks, that that sort of game doesn't appeal to me. Personally, I expect the most strenuous efforts to be made to bump me off -I'd be disappointed if they weren't-but my girl friends are in baulk. Get that. And if at any time the idea should come back to you that that would be a good way of getting at me- forget it. Because I promise you that anyone who starts that stuff on me is going for a long ride, and he'll die in a way that'll make him wish he'd never been born. Think that over while you're carving rocks on the Moor!"

  Then the police came and took them away. They said nothing then, and went down for three years without speaking.

  But the Saint was a thoughtful man at breakfast the next morning.

  In the old days, Patricia Holm had shared his immunity. Now that his was gone, her own went also. The knowledge of her existence, and what she might be assumed to mean to the Saint, was free to anyone who took the trouble to watch him. The plan of campaign that the facts suggested was obvious; the only wonder was that it had not been tried before. For one thing, of course, the number of the Saint's enemies whose minds would take that groove was limited, and the number who would be capable of actually travelling along the groove was more limited still-but the idea must not be allowed to grow. And Lemuel had lost much-he would have a long memory.

  "I don't think he's a useful citizen," concluded the Saint, out of the blue; and Patricia Holm looked up blankly from her newspaper.

  "Who's that?"

  "Uncle Francis."

  Then she heard of the nocturnal visitors.

  "He doesn't know that all the money I took off him has gone to Queen Charlotte's Hospital-a most suitable charity -less only our regular ten-percent fee for collection," said the Saint. "And if I told him, I don't think he'd believe me. As long as he's at large, he'll be thinking of his lost fortune-and you. And, as I said, I don't think he's a useful citizen."

  "What can you do?" she asked.

  Simon smiled at her. He really thought that she grew more beautiful every day.

  "Sweetheart," he said, "you're the only good thing this rolling stone's collected out of all the world. And there's only one logical thing to do."

  But he left her to guess what that was; he had not worked out the details himself at that moment. He knew that Francis Lemuel owned a large country house standing in its own spacious grounds just outside Tenterden, and the next day he learned that Lemuel had established himself there-"to re cover from a severe nervous collapse," the newspaper informed him-but it was not for another two days, when another item of news came his way, that the Saint had his inspiration for the manner in which Francis Lemuel should die.

  9

  I shall call on Wednesday at 3 p.m. You will be at home.

  Francis Lemuel stared at the curt note, and the little sketch that served for signature, with blurring eyes. Minutes passed before he was able to reach shakily for the decanter-his breakfast was left untasted on the table.

  An hour later, reckless of consequences, he was speaking on the telephone to Scotland Yard.

  At the same time Simon Templar was speaking to Patricia Holm, what time he carefully marmaladed a thin slice of brown bread and a thick slice of butter.

  "There are three indoor servants at Tenterden-a butler and a cook, man and wife, and the valet. The rest of the staff have been fired, and half the house is shut up-I guess Francis is finding it necessary to pull in his horns a bit. The butler and cook have a half-day off on Wednesday. The valet has his half-day on Thursday, but he has a girl at Rye. He has asked her to marry him, and she has promised to give her answer when she sees him next-which will, of course, be on Thursday. He has had a row with Lemuel, and
is thinking of giving notice."

  "How do you know all this?" asked Patricia. "Don't tell me you deduced it from the mud on the under-gardener's boots, because I shan't believe you."

  "I won't," said the Saint generously. "If you want to know, I saw all that last part in writing. The valet is an energetic correspondent. Sometimes he goes to bed and leaves a letter half finished, and he's a sound sleeper."

  "You've been inside Lemuel's house?"

  "These last three nights. The burglar alarms are absolutely childish."

  "So that's why you've been sleeping all day, and looking so dissipated!"

  Simon shook his head.

  "Not 'dissipated,'" he said. " 'Intellectual' is the word you want."

  She looked at him thoughtfully.

  "What's the game, lad?"

  "Is your memory so short, old Pat? Why, what should the game be but wilful murder?"

  Patricia came round the table and put her hands on his shoulders.

  "Don't do it, Saint! It's not worth it."

  "It is." He took her hands and kissed them, smiling a little. "Darling, I have hunches, and my hunches are always right. I know that the world won't be safe for democracy as long as Francis continues to fester in it. Now listen, and don't argue. As soon as you're dressed, you will disguise yourself as an elderly charwoman about to visit a consumptive aunt at Rye. At Rye you will proceed to the post office and send a telegram which I've written out for you-here." He took the form from his pocket, and pressed it into her hand. "You will then move on to Tenterden." He gave an exact description of a certain spot, and of an instrument which she would find there. "If you observe a crowd and a certain amount of wreckage in the offing, don't get excited. They won't be near where you've got to go. Collect the gadget and et ceteras, and push them into the bag you'll have with you. . . . Then, returning to the blinkin' railway station, you will leap into the first train in which you see a carriage that you can have all to yourself, and in that you will remove your flimsy disguise, disembark as your own sweet self at the next stop, catch the first train back to town, and meet me for dinner at the Embassy at eight. Is that clear?"

  She opened the telegraph form, and read it.

  "But what's the idea?"

  "To clear the air, darling."

  "But--"

  "Uncle Francis? . . I've worked that out rather brilliantly. The time has gone by, sweetheart, when I could bounce in and bump off objectionable characters as and when the spirit moved. Too much is known about me-and robbery may be a matter for the robbed, but murder is a matter for the Lore. But I think this execution ought to meet the case. Besides, it will annoy Teal-Teal's been a bit uppish lately."

  There was no doubt that his mind was made up; yet it was not without misgivings that Patricia departed on her mission: But she went; for she knew the moods in which the Saint was inflexible.

  It was exactly three o'clock when the Saint, a trim and superbly immaculate and rather rakish figure, climbed out of his car at the end of Lemuel's drive, and sauntered up to the house.

  "Dear old Francis!" The Saint was at his most debonair as he entered the celebrated impresario's library. "And how's trade?"

  "Sit down, Templar."

  The voice was so different from Lemuel's old sonorous joviality that the Saint knew that the story of "a severe nervous collapse" was not a great exaggeration. Lemuel's hand was unsteady as he replaced his cigar between his teeth.

  "And what do you want now?"

  "Just a little chat, my cherub," said the Saint.

  He lighted a cigarette, and his eyes roved casually round the room. He remarked a tiny scrap of pink paper screwed up in an ash tray, and a tall Chinese screen in one corner, and a slow smile of satisfaction expanded within him-deep within him. Lemuel saw nothing.

  "It's a long time since we last opened our hearts to each other, honeybunch," said the Saint, sinking back lazily into the cushions, "and you must have so much to tell me. Have you been a good boy? No more cocaine, or little girls, or any thing like that?"

  "I don't know what you mean. If you've come here to try to blackmail me--"

  "Dear, dear! Blackmail? What's that, Francis?-or shall I call you Frank?"

  "You can call me what you like."

  Simon shook his head.

  "I don't want to be actually rude," he said. "Let it go at Frank. I once knew another man, a very successful scavenger, named Frank, who slipped in a sewer, and sank. This was after a spree; ever afterwards he was teetotal-but, oh, how unpleasant he smelt. Any relation of yours?"

  Lemuel came closer. His face looked pale and bloated; there was a beastly fury in his eyes.

  "Now listen to me, Templar. You've already robbed me once--"

  "When?"

  "D'you have to bluff when there isn't an audience? D'you deny that you're the Saint?"

  "On the contrary," murmured Simon calmly. "I'm proud of it. But when have I robbed you?"

  For a moment Lemuel looked as if he would choke. Then: "What have you come for now?" he demanded.

  Simon seemed to sink even deeper into his chair, and he watched the smoke curling up from his cigarette with abstracted eyes.

  "Suppose," he said lazily-"just suppose we had all the congregation out in the limelight. Wouldn't that make it seem more matey?"

  "What d'you mean?"

  Lemuel's voice cracked on the question.

  "Well," said Simon, closing his eyes, with a truly sanctimonious smile hovering on his hips, "I really do hate talking to people I can't see. And it must be frightfully uncomfortable for Claud Eustace, hiding behind that screen over there."

  "I don't understand--"

  "Do you understand, Claud?" drawled the Saint; and Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal answered wearily that he understood.

  He emerged mountainously, and stood looking down at the Saint with a certain admiration in his bovine countenance.

  "And how did you know I was there?"

  Simon waved a languid hand towards the table. Teal, following the gesture, saw the ash tray, and the discarded pink overcoat of the gum which he was even then chewing, and groaned.

  "Wrigley," sighed the Saint, succinctly.

  Then Lemuel turned on the detective, snarling.

  "What the hell did you want to come out for?"

  "Chiefly because there wasn't much point in staying where I was, Mr. Lemuel," replied Teal tiredly.

  Simon chuckled.

  "It's as much your fault as his, Francis, old coyote," he said. "If you must try to pull that old gag on me, you want to go into strict training. A man in your condition can't hope to put it over. . . . Oh, Francis! To think you thought I'd bite that bit of cheese-and land myself in good and proper, with Teal taking frantic notes behind the whatnot! You must take care not to go sitting in any damp grass, Francis-you might get brain fever."

  "Anyway," said Teal, "it was a good idea."

  "It was a rotten idea," said the Saint disparagingly. "And always has been. But I knew it was ten to one it would be tried -I knew it when I sent that note to Francis. I'm glad you came. Claud-I really did want you here."

  "Why?"

  Lemuel cut in. His face was tense and drawn.

  "Inspector, you know this man's character--"

  "I do," said Teal somnolently. "That's the trouble."

  "He came here to try to blackmail me, and he'd have done it if he hadn't discovered you. Now he's going to try to get out of it on one of his bluffs-"

  "No," said the Saint; and he said it in such a way that there was a sudden silence.

  And, in the stillness, with his eyes still closed, the Saint listened. His powers of hearing were abnormally acute: he heard the sound he was waiting for when neither of the other two could hear anything-and even to him it was like nothing more than the humming of a distant bee.

  And then he opened his eyes. It was like the unmasking of two clear blue lights in the keen brown face; and the eyes were not jesting at all. He stood up.

  "As you
said-you know me, Teal," he remarked. "Now I'll tell you what you don't know about Francis Lemuel. The first thing is that he's at the head of the dope ring you've been trying to get at for years. I don't know how he used to bring the stuff into the country; but I do know that when I was his private pilot, a little while ago, he came back from Berlin one time with enough snow in his grip to build a ski-slope round the Equator."

  "It's a lie! By God, you'll answer for that, Templar--"

  "Now I come to think of it," murmured Teal, "how do you know his real name?"

  Simon laughed softly. The humming of the bee was not so distant now-the other two could have heard it easily, if they had listened.

  "Don't haze the accused," he said gently. "He'll get all hot and bothered if you start to cross-examine him. Besides, the charge isn't finished. There's another matter, concerning a girl named Stella Domford-and several others whose names I couldn't give you, for all I know."

  "Another lie!"

  Teal turned heavy eyes on the man.

  "You're a great clairvoyant," he said, judicially.

  "At this man's request," said the Saint quietly, "I flew Stella Dornford over to Berlin. She was supposed to be going to a cabaret engagement with a man called Jacob Einsmann. The place I took her to was not a cabaret-I needn't mention what it was. The Berlin police will corroborate that."

  Lemuel grated: "They want you for the murder of Einsmann."

  "I doubt it," said the Saint. "I certainly shot him, but it shouldn't be hard to prove self-defense."

  The bee was very much closer. And the Saint turned to Teal.

  "I have one other thing to say," he added, "for your ears alone."

  "I have a right to hear it," barked Lemuel shakily. "Inspector--"

  "Naturally you'll hear it, Mr. Lemuel," said Teal soothingly. "But if Mr. Templar insists on telling me alone, that's his affair. If you'll excuse us a moment . . ."

  Lemuel watched them go, gripping the table for support. Presently, through the French windows, he saw them strolling across the lawn, side by side. The air was now full of the drone of the bee, but he did not notice it.