"Meaning that you are free to go as soon as you like."

Bittle looked hard at the Saint as he spoke, and the malevolence that glittered in his eyes belied the geniality of his speech. Bittle was clearly upset at having to carry out such a command. He barked an order, and the escort of roughnecks sidled, out of the room, closing the door behind them. Bloem was fidgeting with his tie, and he kept one hand in a pocket that bulged heavily.

"That's nice of you," drawled the Saint. You won't mind if I take Anna, will you?"

He strolled coolly over to the secretaire, jerked open a drawer, and retrieved the knife that they had taken from him, slipping it back into the sheath under his sleeve. Then he faced the two men again.

"Really," he remarked in a tone of polite inquiry, "your kindness overwhelms me. And I never put you down for a brace of birds too gravely burdened with faith, hope, and charity. Is Miss Holm such an insuperable obstacle — to Supermen like yourselves?"

"I think," said Bittle smoothly, "that you would be wise not to ask too many questions. It is quite enough for you to know, Mr. Templar, that your phenomenal luck has held — perhaps for the last time. You had better say good-night before we change our minds."

The Saint smiled.

"You have no minds," he said. "The Tiger says 'Hop!' and you blinkin' well hop. ... I wonder, now, is it because you're scared of Orace? Orace is a devil when he's roused, and if you'd bumped me off and he'd got to know about it there'd've been hell to pay. Possibly you're wise."

"Possibly," snarled Bloem, as though he did not believe it, and the Saint nodded.

"There is always the chance that I might go and talk to the police, isn't there?"

Bittle was lighting a cigar, and he looked up with a twisted mouth.

"You are not a man who loses his nerve and goes yelping to Scotland Yard, Mr. Templar," he answered. "Also, there is quite a big prize at stake. I think we can rely on you."

The Saint stared back with a kind of reluctant admiration.

"Almost I see in you the making of sportsmen," he said.

"I can only hope," returned Bittle impassively, "that you will find the sport to your liking."

Simon shook his head.

"You won't disappoint me, Beautiful One," he murmured. "I feel it in my bones.... And so to bed.... Give the Tiger my love, and tell him I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet him." And the Saint paused, struck by a sudden thought. "By the way — about Fernando. You know somebody's going to swing for him, don't you? I mean, if things start to go badly, make sure the Tiger gets all the blame to himself, or else you might swing with him."

"We shall be careful," Bittle assured him.

"Splendid," said the Saint. "Well, cheerio, souls. Sleep tight, and pleasant dreams."

He sauntered to the French windows and opened them.

"If you don't mind — I have a rooted dislike for dark corridors. One never knows, does one?"

"Mr. Templar." The millionaire stopped him. "Before you go — "

The Saint turned on the terrace and looked back into the room. He was still debonair and smiling, and although the shrubbery had given the coup de graceto his ancient and disreputably comfortable clothes, he contrived by some subtle gift of personality to look immaculate enough to wander into Claridge's without the commissionaire spotting him and shooing him round to the tradesmen's entrance. Only the Saint knew what an effort that air of careless ease cost him. The atmosphere was positively dripping with the smell of rats, but Simon Templar never twitched a nostril.

"Comrade?"

"It might save you spending a sleepless night, and catching your death of cold," observed Bittle, "if I told you that the Tiger has already left. So you needn't bother to hang about outside."

"Thanks," said the Saint. "I won't. And it might save you a longish walk and a lot of trouble if I told you that Orace and I sleep in watches, turn and turn about, so that any of your pals who call round in the hope of being able to catch us dapping will have to be very fly. ... S'long!"

He vanished into the darkness like a wraith, almost before the men in the library could have realized that he was gone. He went scraping through the shrubbery again to the wall, got his coat over the top as before, and was over like a cat.

He dropped lightly to the ground, pulled on the tattered coat, and struck off away from the wall after no more than a couple of seconds' pause to listen and scan the blackness in every direction. Guided by an innate bump of locality, he established his bearings at once and set off on a wide detour -that would bring him eventually into the grounds at the back of the Manor. He advanced in short rushes, stopping and crouching in cover every twenty yards or so, straining eyes and ears for sign of stalkers behind or an ambush before. Nothing happened. The night was quiet and peaceful.

He saw a light go on in an upper window of Bittle's house, and the distant hiss of the surf mingled with the rustle of grasses brushed by the breeze, but there was neither sight nor sound of any human being.

"Damned odd!" said Templar to himself, scratching his head, as he lay under a hedge, watching and listening like a frontiersman, after at least a dozen of these rushes. "Flaming odd! Or did I slip them by going over the wall?"

He had fully expected to find some spicy parting gift waiting for him as soon as he had got far enough away from Bittle's vicinity, when they would be hoping to take him off his guard, but nothing had interfered with his departure, and there had been no trace of even the feeblest attempt to create trouble for him when he arrived in the narrow lane that ran between the Manor and Carn's house. ' .

"Hell!" said the Saint, almost indignantly. "Now, why in blazes did they want to let me go?"

He had seen no lights in any of the Manor windows, and with a sudden apprehension he looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He was already a couple of minutes overdue. He swung round and sprinted up the path to Carn's cottage. The Saint literally fell on the bell.

It was only a moment before Carn opened the door. Simon could have fallen on the detective's neck when he saw that Carn's features registered nothing more than a faint surprise, but he concealed his joy and assumed the slightly mocking smile that went with his Saintly pose.

"Thought I'd find you up," murmured the Saint. “Mind if I split a small lemonade with you?"

He had sidled past Carn into the miniature hall before the detective could answer, and Carn closed the front door resignedly.

"I didn't expect to be honoured again so soon, Mr. Templar," said the detective. "As a matter of fact, I've a visitor with me...."

The last sentence was uttered in a tone that was intended to convey a gentle hint, as man of the world to man of the world, that the Saint should pause and consult his host before making himself at home, but the Saint had opened the door of the study before the detective had finished speaking.

"Why, it's Miss Holm!" exclaimed the Saint. "Fancy meeting you!" He turned to Carn, who was reddening silently on the threshold. "I hope I'm not interrupting a consultation, Doc? Throw me out of the window if I cramp your style, won't you? I mean, people never stand on ceremony with me. ..."

"As a matter of fact," said Carn, on the defensive, "Miss Holm simply came round for a chat."

"No? Really?" said the Saint.

"Yes!" returned Carn loudly.

"Well, well!" said Simon, who was enjoying himself hugely. "And how are we. Miss Holm?"

He was wondering just how much she had told Carn, and she read the unspoken question in his eyes, and answered it.

"In another minute — '