"You're a damned fool," said the Saint.

She laughed, standing up to him and laying a hand on his shoulders.

"Dear man," she said, "I refuse to lose my temper, because I know that's just what you want me to do. You think that if you're rude enough I'll dash off and leave you to stew. And I can promise you I shan't do anything of the sort. I know it isn't going to be a picnic — but I'm sorry if you think I'm a girl that's only fit for picnics. I've always fancied myself as the heroine of a hell-for-leather adventure, and this is probably the only chance I Shall 'ever have. And I'm jolly well going to see it through!"

Something held him in check with an effort. He had a frantic impulse to take this stubborn slip of a girl across his knee and spank some sense into her; and coincidently with that he had an equally importunate desire to hug her and kiss her to death. For there was no doubt that she was determined to ride on to the kill, however dangerous the country her obstinate intention led her over. Why she should be so set on it beat the Saint. He could imagine a high-spirited girl fancying herself as the heroine of just such an adventure, but he had never dreamed of meeting a girl who'd go on fancying herself quite so keenly when it came to the point, and when she'd had a peek at some of the stern and spiky disadvantages. But there she was, smiling into his eyes, tranquilly announcing her resolution to see the shooting match through with him, and boldly averring that she was perfectly prepared to eat the whole cake as well as the icing. She was going to be the blazes of a nuisance and the mischief of a worry to him — "But, hell!" swore the Saint to himself — "I'm darn glad of it!" Wherein he betrayed his egotism. It would be a gruelling test for her, but he'd have her with him all the time. And if she came through it with flying colours, well, maybe after all he'd go the way of most confirmed bachelors.. ..

And since he saw that neither cajoling nor cursing would budge her, he accepted the situation like a wise man. And even then (with such an inferiority complex is Love afflicted) the sublime egotist did not spot the foundation of her determination, though it stuck out a mile. Nevertheless, in his blindness he was very near to blundering straight into the heart of the affair. His scowl relaxed, and he took her hand from his shoulder and held it,

"I've known some fool women," said the Saint, "but I never met one whose foolishness appealed to me more than yours."

"Then — it's a bet?" she asked.

He nodded.

You said it, partner. And the Lord grant we win. It's not my fault if you insist on jazzing into the Tiger's den, but it'll be my unforgivable fault if I don't yank you out again safely. Shake!"

"Bless you," said Patricia softly.

"Well," remarked Simon Templar, breaking a long silence as lightly as he could, "where do we go from here, old Pat?"

She disengaged her hand and sat down again; and he shifted his own chair round so that they were knee to knee. She was chilled by the defi-niteness with which he reverted to pure business, though later she realized that he did so only because he was afraid of letting himself go, and possibly incurring her displeasure by forcing the pace.

"I've also a story to tell," she said, "and it came out only last night."

And she gave him a full account of Agatha Girton's confession.

For such a loquacious man, he was an astonishingly attentive listener. It was a side of his character which she had not seen before-the Saint concentrating. He did not interrupt her once, sitting back with his eyes shut and his face so composed that he might well have been asleep. But when she had finished he was frowning thoughtfully.

"Curiouser and curiouser," said the Saint. "So Aunt Aggie is one of the bhoys? But what in the sacred name of haggis could anyone blackmail Aunt Aggie with? Speaking quite reverently, I can't imagine she was ever ravishing enough, even in her prime, to acquire anything like a Past."

"It does seem absurd, but — "

The Saint scratched his head.

"What do you know about her?"

"Very little, really," Patricia replied. "I've sort of always taken her for granted. My mother died when I was twelve — my father was killed hunting three years before that — and she became my guardian. I never saw much of her until quite recently. She spent most other time abroad, on the Riviera. She had a villa at Hyeres. I stayed on at school very late, and I was generally alone here during the holidays — I mean, she was away, though I usually had school friends staying with me, or I stayed with them. She didn't do much for me, but my bills were paid regularly, and she wrote once a fortnight."

"When did she settle down in Baycombe, then?"

"When she came back from South Africa. About six years ago I had a letter from her from Port Said saying that she was on her way to the Cape. She was away a year, and I hardly had a line from her. Then one day she turned up and said she'd had enough of travelling and was going to live at the Manor.”

"And did she?"

"She used to go abroad occasionally, but they were quite short trips."

"When was the last expedition?"

She pondered.

"About two years ago, or a bit less. I can't remember the exact date."

"Now think," suggested the Saint — "roughly, you hardly saw her at all between the time she introduced herself as your guardian, when you were twelve, until she came back from South Africa, when you were sixteen or seventeen."

"Nearer seventeen."

"And in that time anything might have hap-pened”

She shrugged.

"I suppose so. But it's too ridiculous...."

*'Of course it is," agreed Simon blandly. "It's all too shriekingly ridiculous for words. It's ridiculous that our Tiger should have broken the Confederate Bank of Chicago and lugged the moidores over to Baycombe to await disposal. It's ridiculous to think that there are some hundredweights of twenty-two carat gold hidden somewhere not two miles from here. But there are. What we've got to assume is that on this joy ride nothing is too ridiculous to be real. Which reminds me — what do you know about the old houses in Baycombe? There must be something conspicuously old enough for Fernando to have thought the Old House was sufficient address."

He was surprised at her immediate answer.

"There are two that'd fit," she said. "One is just out of the village, inland. It used to be an inn, and the name of it was the Old House. It’s falling to bits now — the proprietor lost his license in the year Dot, and nobody took it over. It's supposed to be haunted. The windows are all boarded up, and a dozen men could live there without being seen if they went in and out at night.”

The Saint smashed fist into palm, his eyes lighting up.

"Moonshine and Moses!" he whooped. "Pat, you're worth a fortune to this partnership! And I was just thinking we'd come to a standstill. Why, we haven't moved yet! .. . What's the other one?"

"The island just round the point." She waved her arm to the east. "The fishermen call it the Old House, but you wouldn't have noticed it because if only looks like that from the sea. The sides are very steep, and on one side it juts right out over the water, like those old houses where the first floor is bigger than the ground floor."

Simon jumped up and walked to the edge of the cliff, so that he could see the island. It was about a mile from the shore — nothing but an outcrop of rock thickly overgrown with bushes and stunted trees. He came back jubilant.

"It might be either," he said exultantly, "or it might be both — the Tiger may have a home from home in your defunct pub, and he may have parked the doubloons on the island. Anyway, we'll draw both covers and see. Thinking it over, I guess I've hit it. The Tiger'd want to have the gold someplace he could ship it from easily — remember, it's got to go to Africa. And by the same token ... Here, hold on half a sec."