"I'd rather have you on my side than against me, Saint," said Carn. "You'd get a rake-off. Think it over.'

Hands on hips, the Saint regarded the red-faced man quizzically.

"Can I take that as official?"

"Naturally not. But you can take it from me that it can be arranged on the side."

"Thanks," said the Saint. "I don't feel impressed with your balance sheet. Taken by and large, the dividend don't seem fat enough to tempt this investor. Now try this one: come in with me, and I'll promise you one third. Think it over, Detective Inspector Carn."

"Dr.Carn."

The Saint smiled.

"Need we keep it up?" he asked smoothly. "What on earth, dear lamb, did you think you were getting away with?"

Carn wrinkled his nose.

"Just as you like," he agreed. "You have the advantage of me, though. I'm hanged if I can place , you."

"That's the best news I've heard for some time,"

said the Saint cheerfully.

Carn rose to go after a couple of pints of beer

had vanished, and Templar rose also.

"Better let me see you home," said the Saint. “I’ll feel safer."

"If you think I need nursing," began Carn with some heat, but Simon linked his arm in that of the detective with his most charming smile.

"Not a bit. I'd enjoy the stroll."

Carn was living in a miniature house the grounds of which backed on the larger grounds of the Manor. Templar had already noticed the house, and wondered to whom it belonged; and for some unaccountable reason, which he could only blame on his melodramatic imagination, he felt relieved at the news that Patricia had a real live detective within call.

On the walk, the Saint learned that Carn had been on the spot for three months. Carn was prepared to be loquacious up to a point: but beyond that limit he could not be lured. Carn was also prepared to talk about the Saint — a fact which pleased Simon's egotism without hypnotizing his caution.

"I think it should be an interesting duel," Carn said.

"I hope so," agreed Templar politely?

"The more so because you are the second most confident crook I've ever met.'

The Saint's white teeth flashed.

"You're premature," he protested. "My crime is not yet committed. Already an idea is sizzling in my brain which might easily save me the trouble of running against the law at all. I'll write my solicitor to-morrow and let you know."

He declined Carn's invitation to come in for a doch-an-dorris, and, saying good-bye at the door, set off briskly in the general direction of the Pill Box.

This expedition, however, lasted only for so long as he judged that Carn, if he were curious, would have been able to hear the departing footsteps. At that point the Saint stepped neatly off the road on to the grass at the side and retraced his steps, moving like a lean gray shadow. A short distance away he could see the gaunt lines of Sir John Bittle's home, and it had occurred to him that his investigations might very well include that wealthy upstart. It was just after ten o'clock, but the thought that the household would still be awake never gave the Saint a moment's pause: his was a superbly reckless bravado.

The house was surrounded by a high stone wall that increased its sinister and secretive air, making it look like a converted prison. The Saint worked round the wall with the noiseless surefootedness of a Red Indian. He found only two openings. There was a back entrance which looked more like a mediaeval postern gate, and which could not have been penetrated without certain essential tools that were not included in Templar's travelling equipment. At the front there was a large double door a few yards back from the road, but this also was set into the wall, which would have formed a kind of archway at that spot if the doors had been opened.

It was left for the Saint to scale the wall itself. Fortunately he was tall, and he found that by standing on tiptoe and straining upward he was able to hook his fingers over the top. Satisfied, he took off his coat and held it with the tab between his teeth; then, reaching up, he got a grip and hauled himself to the full contraction of his muscles. Holding on with one hand, he flung his coat over the broken glass set into the top of the wall, and so scrambled over, dropping to the ground on the other side like a cat.

The Saint moved swiftly along the wall to the back entrance which he had observed, conducted a light-fingered search for burglar alarms, and found one which he disconnected. Then he unbarred the door and left it slightly ajar in readiness for his retreat.

That done, he went down on his knees and crawled toward the house. If the light had been strong enough to make him visible, his method of progress would have seemed to border on the antics of a lunatic, for he wriggled forward six inches at a time, his hands waving and weaving about gently in front of him. In this way he evaded two fine alarm wires, one stretched a few inches off the ground and the other at the level of his shoulder. He rose under the wall of the house, chuckling in" audibly, but he was taking no chances.

"Now let's take a look at the warrior who looks after himself so carefully," said the Saint, but he said it to himself.

The side of the house on which he found himself was in darkness, and after a second's thought he worked rapidly round to the south. As soon as he rounded the angle of the building he saw two patches of light on the grass, and crept along till he reached the French windows from which they were thrown. The curtains were half drawn, but he was able to peer through a gap between the hangings and the frames.

He was looking into the library — a large, lofty, oak-panelled room, luxuriously furnished. It was quite evident that Sir John Bittle's parsimony did not interfere with his indulgence of his personal tastes. The carpet was a rich Turk with fully a four-inch pile; the chairs were huge and inviting, upholstered in brown leather; a costly bronze stood in one corner, and the walls were lined with bookshelves.

These things the Saint noticed in one glance, before anything human caught his eye. A moment later he saw the man who could only have been Bittle himself. The late wholesale grocer was stout: the Saint could only guess at height, since Bittle was hunched up in one of the enormous chairs, but the millionaire's pink neck overflowed his collar in all directions. Sir John Bittle was in dinner dress, and he was smoking a cigar.

"Charming sketch of home life of Captain of Canning Industry," murmured the Saint, again to his secret soul. "Unconventional portraits of the Great. Picture on Back Page."

The Saint had thought Bittle was atone, but just as he was about to move along he heard the millionaire's fat voice remark:

"And that, my dear young lady, is the position.

The Saint stood like a man turned to granite.

Presently a familiar voice answered, "I can't believe it."

The Saint edged away from the wall so that he could see into the room through the space between the half-drawn curtains. Patricia was in the chair opposite Bittle, tight-lipped, her handkerchief twisted to a rag between her fingers.

Bittle laughed — a throaty chuckle that did not disturb the comfortable impassiveness of his florid features. Templar also chuckled. If that chuckle could have been heard, it would have been found to have an unpleasant timbre.

"Even documents — bonds — receipts — won't convince you, I suppose?" asked the millionaire. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his dinner jacket and tossed them into the girl's lap. "I’ve been very patient, but I'm getting tired of this hanky-panky. I suppose just seeing you made me silly and Sentimental — but I'm not such a sentimental fool that I'm going to take another mortgage on an estate that isn’t worth one half of what I've lent your aunt already."