It was a disconcerting realization to have to face — that Lapping had read through her studied innocence and seen her for nothing more or less than the emissary of the Saint, and that he was simply playing with her. Would any law-abiding man, however tolerant, have been quite so broad-minded? She began to doubt it, while she had to admit that her grounds for doing so were very flimsy. If Lapping were high up in the Tiger Cubs, he would be a clever man, and a clever man would know that to try to turn her against the Saint would immediately arouse suspicion of his motives; whereas by taking the Saint's part he might hope to inveigle her into regarding him as a potential ally. But how could an ex-judge, most of whose life had been led in the glaring light of publicity, have managed to enter such a gang as the Tiger's? Her brain reeled in a dizzy maze of impossible theories, of profound subtleties and super-crafty countersubtleties. If Lapping were in league with the Tiger, and had seen through her, how high would he be likely to rate her intelligence? For according to that rating he would be skilfully gauging her psychological reactions to his insidious attack, so that on the very points where she thought he had betrayed himself he would have fooled her into making exactly the deductions he wanted her to make. And to beat him at that game she would have to be just a shade cleverer than he gave her credit for being — and how clever was that? For the first time she got an insight into the true deadly technique of the "sport" she had taken up so light-heartedly.

Now Lapping emerged from the house, carrying a folding table. Behind him followed his housekeeper with the tray of teachings. For an instant Patricia was seized with panic. Suppose Lapping were one of the Tiger Cubs — even the Tiger himself — and had discovered her object and decided to remove her? The tea could be drugged, cakes could be poisoned. She choked back an impulse to rush away, forcing herself to think of Simon. What would the Saint have done in the circumstances? Well, for a start, he'd never have allowed them to arise. But how would he face them if they had arisen? She compelled herself to deal logically with her fear, and the answer came. Whatever Lapping might be, and however much he suspected, he wouldn't dare to do anything to her just then, because of the possibility that the Saint might be keeping an eye on the proceedings, watching and waiting to see if Lapping would fall for the temptation and so incriminate himself. The answer was sound. Patricia relaxed, and greeted Lapping with a friendly smile when he arrived.

“I feel I'm giving you a lot of trouble," she apologized.

He waved her excuses aside.

"Not at all, my dear Miss Holm. It's a pleasure. And the trouble is negligible — for a bachelor, I'm very domesticated, and dispensing tea is one of my social, assets."

He was genial and unreserved. The secret amusement which she had noticed was no longer evident. Either he had ceased to see the funny side of the situation, or his pleasure in it had become too great to show. She found herself again falling under the spell of his avuncular bonhomie, but the memory of that half-hidden mockery in his eyes continued to bother her. Wouldn't a man with nothing to conceal have shown his amusement openly, if he found anything comic in being appealed to for advice on such a matter? What other explanation could there be except the one that Lapping was playing a shrewd game?

Perhaps the Saint would know. The bare facts must be placed in his possession at once, for Patricia felt that she was hopelessly out of her depth. She ate and drank sparingly, praying for the earliest moment at which she could take her leave without seeming in too great a hurry. Lapping, either ignoring her perturbation or failing to see any signs of it, chatted pleasantly; Patricia did her best to keep up the part she was playing. She must have done it successfully, for he appeared pained and surprised when she made a tentative move to gather up her belongings.

"Must you leave me so soon?"

"I've promised to see my aunt before dinner," she said. "There's some business to talk over — something about my investments. It's an awful bore, but the letter's got to be written to-night so that it can go off first thing in the morning."

It was amazing what a fluent and convincing liar she had become of a sudden.

"Needless to say, I'm heartbroken," he vowed, pressing her hand. "But perhaps I can hope that you'll come again? I'll talk as seriously as you want me to — I think I can understand your difficulty, and perhaps, with all due respect to Miss Girton, I'm the best qualified person in Baycombe to advise you. Perhaps you could even arrange to bring Mr. Templar with you? He needn't know that I have your confidence."

“I’ll try to get him to see you," she averred truthfully.

"I'd be delighted. I'm very idle, and I hate ceremony, so we don't have to bother about a formal invitation. Just drop in without notice — you'll find me at your service."

She thanked him, and he escorted her to the gate. She had just passed through it when an inspiration struck her. And the blow staggered her, so desperate and daring was the idea. But she carried it out before she had time to falter.

"By the way," she said, "how's Harry the Duke?"

The question sprang to her lips so artlessly and naturally, so apropos of nothing that they had been talking about for a long time, that she could not have contrived it better to take him off his guard. She was watching his face keenly, knowing how much depended on his reaction. But not a muscle twitched and his eyes did not change — she was studying those intently, well aware that the expression of the eyes is a hard thing for even the most masterly bluffer to control. He looked surprised, and thought for a second.

"Why, whatever makes you ask that?" he inquired in frank bewilderment.

"Simon — Mr. Templar mentioned that you'd once sentenced a dangerous criminal of that name, and he said he thought the man might make an attempt on your life."

He nodded.

"Yes, I remember — Templar said as much to me the first time we met. Harry the Duke swore from the dock that he'd get even with me. But I’ve heard the same threat several times, and I'm still alive, and it hasn't spoiled my sleep."

Patricia made her escape as soon after that as she could. She had to confess herself utterly baffled. However Lapping had behaved earlier in the afternoon, his response to that startling question of hers could not have been more open or more genuine. The name of Harry the Duke conveyed nothing more to Lapping than a crook he had sent to prison in the course of his duty — she would have given her oath for it. He had been unaffectedly taken off his guard, and yet there had been no vestige of fear or suspicion in his puzzlement. Could a guilty man have accomplished such a feat — even if he were the most consummate actor that was ever born?

The girl felt a crying need for Simon Templar*s superior knowledge and acuter judgment. She was helpless — beaten. But for the amusement she had detected in Lapping's eyes, she would not have hesitated to acquit him. Even now she was strongly impelled to do so, in the light of developments subsequent to that, and she was casting around for some theory that would eliminate any malevolent motive and still account satisfactorily for the indisputable fact that he had seen at once what she had been driving at and had calmly and effectively refused to allow himself to be inveigled into saying any more than he chose to say.

But then — the realization only came fb her with stunning conviction when she was walking up the drive to the Manor — if Lapping were blameless, then the only person who could be the Tiger was Agatha Girton!