She was aghast at the thought.

Could she have been living for months and years in the home of the Tiger? It seemed impossible, and yet the theory seemed to get more watertight with every second. It would account for Agatha Girton's continual absences abroad, and the letters which came from the Riviera could easily have been fake alibis. But in that case the trip to South Africa would have been real enough — the Tiger would naturally have gone there to look for a derelict gold mine to salt with his plunder, as the Saint had explained. And she remembered that Agatha Girton had been away just about the time when the Tiger had broken the Confederate Bank.

So the Tiger was a woman! That was not outside the bounds of credibility, for Miss Girton would have had no trouble in impersonating a man.

Patricia had to fight down her second panic that afternoon before she could open the front door and center the house. It struck her as being unpleasantly like walking into the Tiger's jaws as well as walking into his den — or her den. If Miss Girton were the Tiger, she would already be suspicious of Patricia's sudden friendship with Simon Templar; and that suspicion would have been fortified by the girl's adventure of the previous night and her secre-Itiveness about it. Then, if Lapping was suspect also, it would not be long before the Tiger's fears would be confirmed, and she would be confronted with the alternatives of making away with Patricia or chancing the girl's power to endanger her security. And, from all Simon's accounts of the Tiger, there seemed little doubt on which course the choice would fall.

The Tiger must be either Lapping or Miss Girton. The odds about both stared Patricia in the face — and it looked as if Aunt Agatha won hands down.

At that moment the girl was very near to flying precipitately back to the Pill Box and surrendering all the initiative to Simon: the thought of his trust in her checked that instinct. She had been so stubbornly insistent on being allowed to play her full part, so arrogantly certain of her ability to do it justice, so impatient of his desire to keep her out of danger — what would he think of her if she ran squealing to his arms as soon as the fun looked like becoming too fast and furious? To have accepted his offer of sanctuary would not necessarily have lowered her in his eyes; but to have refused it so haughtily and then to change her mind as soon as she winded the first sniff of "battle would' be a confession of faintheartedness which he could not overlook.

"No, Patricia Holm," she said to herself, "that's not in the book of the rules, and never has been. You would have a taste of the soup, and now you've fallen in you've jolly well got to swim. He wouldn't say anything, I know, and he'd be as pleased as Punch — for a day or two. But after a bit he'd begin to think a heap. And then it'd all be over — smithereened! And that being so we'll take our medicine without blubbering, even if the jam has worn a trifle thin.... Therefore, Patricia Holm, as our Saint would say, where do we go from here?"

Well, she'd done all she could about Lapping, and she must wait to see what he thought of the evidence. There remained Agatha Girton, and the Saint's orders must be obeyed under that heading the same as under the other. Patricia braced herself for the ordeal, and just then her hand touched something hard in her pocket. She brought it out and took a peep at it — the automatic which Simon had given her. It was marvellously encouraging to remember that that little toy could at the touch of her finger splutter a hail of sudden death into any-one who tried to put over any funny business. She put it back in her pocket and patted it affectionately.

The housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen to see who had come in, informed her that Miss Girton had returned half an hour since, and Patricia felt her heart pounding unevenly as she went to the drawing room.

To her surprise, the door was locked. She rattled the handle, and presently Agatha Girton answered.

"Who's that?"

"Me — Patricia."

"I can't see you now."

The girl frowned.

"It's important," she persisted. "I want to talk to you."

"Well, Pm busy, and I can't spare the time. Come back presently — or if you're upstairs I'll call you when I'm ready."

Patricia's fist clenched, but it was no use making a scene. She would have to wait till Agatha Girton came out.

But what was this secrecy for? Miss Girton had never before locked herself up in the drawing room. Nor, before last night, had she even spoken so abruptly without cause — it seemed as if she was actually frightened and jumpy. And what was this new occupation which demanded such privacy and such complete isolation?

Patricia went slowly up to her room, racking her brain to fit the pieces in the jig saw together. Was the Tiger rattled after all? Had Simon succeeded as well as that, and was the Tiger even then concentrating on evolving some master stroke of strategy that would release the Tiger Cubs from the net which was drawing round them and at the same time destroy the man who had come so near to defeating them? They were not beaten yet, but the final struggle was only a few hours away — and was it dawning upon the Tiger Cubs that they had almost fatally underestimated their opponent?

There was no time to lose. Already it was getting late, and Aunt Agatha had to be interviewed and a light dinner bolted before Orace arrived to take her back to the Saint punctually for the attack they had planned. The girl kicked off her shoes, stripped to her stockings, and pulled on her bathing costume. She discarded the light dress she had worn and replaced it with a serviceable tweed skirt and a pullover. The automatic went into a pocket in the skirt, and a pair of brogues completed the outfit, So clad, she felt ready for anything.

It was as she was lacing her shoes that she heard a sound which she had not noticed while moving about the room. It came from beneath the floor, muffled and very faint — a murmur of voices. And the drawing room was right under her feet.

She stood up quickly and tiptoed to the window, but the windows of the drawing room must have been shut, for she was able to hear better inside than by leaning out. Then Miss Girton was not alone! But the mutter was so low that Patricia could not even distinguish the voices, though she pressed her ear against the floor, except that she was able to make out that both had a masculine timbre. Aunt Agatha's would be one. Whose was the other?

The girl realized at once the importance of finding out further details about this conference. If she could get a look at the visitor, and overhear some of the conversation, the result might be of inestimable value, for there could be no disputing the fact that all the circumstances combined to adorn-the incident with a distinctly fishy aspect. And if the clue provided were as damning as she hoped it would be, and she were caught eavesdropping ... The girl drew a long breath and felt again for the reassuring heavy sleekness of her weapon. She had told the Saint that she could be more help than hindrance to him, and now was {he time to prove it, The risk attached to the enterprise would have to be faced in the Saintly manner — with a devil-may-care smile and a shrug and a pious hope that the Lord would provide.

"Carry on, brave heart," said Patricia, and opened the door.

She crept noiselessly down the stairs, but on the last flight she had to stop and deliberate. There were two ways: the door or the windows. The key-hole seemed easier, but she had just remembered that every board in the floor of the old hall had its own vociferous creak. She would have to spy from the garden.

She listened, leaning over the banisters, but the walls and the door were more solid affairs than the floor, and the people in the drawing room must have been talking in subdued tones — perhaps they had just realized the possibility of their being overheard. She could barely catch a whisper of their speech.