He had half expected to find someone waiting just behind the door to put him down as he passed, but his groping fingers touched nothing but dust. First mistake. Well, that meant that anything that was coming to him would arrive out of the blackness in front.

The Saint stood motionless, listening intently and straining his eyes to try and locate the gentleman who had fired that single shot — and had been too surprised at the suddenness of the Saint's reaction to loose off another round at the critical instant when the Saint was silhouetted in the doorway on his way in. It was at least a comfort to have your back to a wall, and to know that the other man was literally as much in the dark as you were; but there were such things as electric torches, and the Saint was tensely prepared for a beam of light to shoot from the obscurity and pick him out for the benefit of the man with the gun. Simon had Anna held in his deft fingers ready to send her whistling through the hand of any man who turned a spotlight on him, and equally ready to hamstring anyone who might creep up and jump on him.

Minutes passed without the other side making a move, and Simon shifted one hand to scratch his head mechanically. Not even his preternaturally acute hearing could catch the least sound — and in that silence he would have bet half his worldly goods on being able to detect the faint rustle of cloth if a man so much as lifted his arm. He made out the steady beating of his own heart, and even heard the whisper of his wrist watch ticking, but there was nothing else.

His eyes were gradually becoming accustomed to the gloom, and at last he began to scowl very thoughtfully, for the passage in front of him was empty. One by one the details became visible. First, two doors, opposite each other and about two yards away, both of them closed. He looked down. The dust lay thick on the floor of the passage, and there were marks of many feet, both entering and leaving. Some of the footprints branched off to the door on his right, but it seemed that nobody had used the room on the left, unless there was another entrance to it. At the far end of the passage was a small window, boarded up like the rest, and it was through this that enough light filtered in for him to be able to see.

It was not long before other features of the landscape showed up. Farther along, to the left, was another door, and the footprints proved that that room had been used fairly recently. And at the end of the passage, under the window, stood a table with a square box on it.

The Saint looked long and hard at that box, and suddenly he had an inspiration. Bending down, he felt along the ground by the door. Presently he found wires, and a little research disclosed the fact that they ran up the corridor — toward the table and the square box. A little more investigation brought him to the metal contacts which closed the electric current. One of them he found screwed to the inside of the door, low down; the other projected from a terminal fixed to the floor. On the strength of that, Simon began to tiptoe down the passage, though he did not relax his vigilance for an instant. He came to the table and the box, and examined them with interest. The wires he had found led to terminals on the box, and from the front of it protruded a shining steel tube.

"Very ingenious, my Tiger," was the Saint's unspoken comment. "When I open the door, I get pipped. And I didn't, after all. Sosorry!"

However, just in case the arrangement had any more shots left, and in case he should have to leave hurriedly by the door, he slewed the box round so that the gun barrel pointed into the wall, and disconnected the wires. Then he took stock of the position again.

The discovery and circumnavigation of that little booby trap didn't dispose of the possibility of encountering others — in fact, his estimate of the Tiger forced him to realize that the next step he took might set some other equally neat little contrivance working. And if not that, there might still be Tiger Cubs in the building, already warned of his arrival by Booby Trap Number One going off, and knowing that it hadn't functioned quite according to plan. The amusing thought that they might be in some fear of his fighting record struck the Saint, and he chuckled quietly. Perhaps they felt confident of having him safely trapped, and were just biding their time to strike him down when the operation could be performed without risk to themselves. Well, it wouldn't hurt them to keep on hoping.

But the job looked just as prickly now that he was inside the Old House as it had been when he was outside. However gingerly he opened the next door, there might be men inside the room waiting to open fire as soon as he showed up in the doorway. Yet the Saint was no piker; and, having got so far, he intended to go the rest of the journey. And the only course he could see was to repeat the tactics he had used when entering the building in the first place. So, without further hesitation, he got on with it.

There was the door with footprints leading to and from it, and that seemed the most promising. There were also footprints outside the swing door nearest to him, but they were less encouraging, for at that point there was only a double set, whereas the other seemed to have been fairly popular. And the Saint's philosophy laid down the law that if you must stroll into the home-sweet-home of a bunch of cut-throats you might as well do the thing in style. Wherefore the Saint went down lire passage and halted by the most dangerous looking door.

There was a handle on that door. He turned it and opened the door a couple of inches. Then, keeping well away, he set his toe against the wood, braced himself, and kicked. The door opened wide, but there was no muffled report. That short history at least wasn't going to repeat itself. And, accordingly, the only thing to do was to march straight in.

Simon went — in a catlike spring that carried him round the corner and set his back against the wall again in a flash. But once more there was no response. Simon had jerked the door shut behind him as before, and one foot was against it so that nobody could open it and sneak out without his knowing it. But only stillness answered his listening, and the room was so dark that he could see nothing. He cursed himself for not having an electric torch. But it was far too late to remedy that, and therefore his only hope was to strike a match — and hope that his concerted speed of eye and brain and hand would be great enough to overcome the handicap he would have to create for himself. If there was anyone in the room, he would be able to see the Saint before the Saint saw him. But the Saint had taken longer chances than that, and his nerves were getting just a shade raw. Simon Templar was afraid of nothing that he could see and hit back at, but this creeping around, seeing no sign of the enemy and yet continually threatened by him, was turning into a joke that the Saint didn't feel inclined to laugh at.

Still gripping Anna, he fished a box of matches out of his pocket and struck one quickly, holding it behind his head so that the flare of it would not dazzle him.

And the room was perfectly empty.

The match burned down between his fingers and went out. He struck another, but even that could not cause a human being to materialize. Yet there had been men there — their footprints were all over the floor, and there were three comparatively new-looking beer bottles in one corner, and scraps of greasy paper were littered about.

"This is getting annoying," said the Saint.

He struck a third match, and took a couple of steps into the room.

Then he tried to hurl himself back, but he was a fraction of a second late. The ground dropped away beneath his feet and he felt himself falling down and down into utter darkness.