The ex-pug went out reluctantly, muttering profane and offensive things, and the millionaire faced round again.

"Suppose you explain yourself?"

"Just suppose!" agreed Templar enthusiasticalty. Bittle glowered.

"Well, Mr. Templar?"

"Quite, thanks. How's yourself?"

"Need you waste time playing the fool?" demanded Bittle shortly.

"Now I come to think of it — no," answered the Saint amiably. "But granny always said I was a terrible tease... Well, sonny, taken all round I don't think your hospitality comes up to standard; and that being so I'll see Miss Holm back to the old roof tree. S'long.''

And he took Patricia’s arm and led her towards the French window, while Bittle stood watching them in silence, completely nonplussed. It was just as he seemed about to pass out of the house without further parley that the Saint stopped and turned, as though struck by a minor afterthought.

"By the way, Bittle," he said, "I was forgetting — you were going to pass over a few documents, weren't you?"

Bittle did not answer, and the Saint added:

"All about your side line in usury. Hand over the stuff and I'll write you a check now for the full amount."

"I refuse," snapped the millionaire.

"Please yourself," said the Saint. "My knowledge of Law is pretty scrappy, but I don't think you can do that without cancelling the debt. Anyway, I'll tell my solicitor to send you a check, and we'll see what happens."

The Saint turned away again, and in so doing almost collided with Patricia, who had preceded him into the garden. The girl was caught in his arms for a moment to save a fall, and the Saint was surprised to see that she was gasping with suppressed terror. A moment later the reason was given him by a ferocious baying of great hounds in the darkness.

In one swift movement Simon had the girl inside the room, and had slammed the French windows shut. Then he stood with his back to the wall, half covering Patricia in the shelter of his wide shoulders, his hands on his hips, and a very saintly meekness overspreading his face.

“’Um — as Orace would say in the circumstances," murmured the Saint. "Bigger than Barnums. Do you mind playing the Clown while I open the Unique Mexican Knifethrowing Act?"

And Bittle, with a tiny automatic in his hand, was treated to a warning glimpse of the fine steel blade that lay along Simon Templar's palm.

"No," said the Saint, shaking his head sadly, "it can't be done. It can't really. For one thing, we're getting all melodramatic, and I know how you hate that. For another thing, we've got the set all wrong. You've got to get into training for looking evil-just now, you're as harmless looking a blackguard as I've ever met. I'm strong for getting the atmosphere right. What do'you say to adjourning, and we can arrange to meet in Limehouse in about two months, which'll give you time to grow a beard and develop a cast in one eye and employ a few tame thugs by way of local colour...."

The Saint rambled on in his free-and-easy manner, while his brain dealt rapidy with the situation. Bittle had not raised his automatic. It pointed innocuously into the carpet, held as loosely as it could be without falling, for Simon's eyes were narrowed down to glinting chips of steel that missed nothing, and Sir John Bittle had an uncomfortable feeling that those eyes were keen enough to note the slightest tightening of a muscle. The Saint was giving an admirable imitation of a man pretending to be off his guard, but the millionaire knew that the sight of the least threatening movement would telegraph an instant message to the hand that played with that slim little knife — and the Saint's general manner suggested that he felt calmly confident of being able to reproduce any and every stunt in any and every Mexican Knifethrowing Act that ever was, with a few variations and trimmings of his own.

"You are not conversational, Bittle," said the Saint, and Bittle smiled.

"My style is, to say the least of it, cramped," replied the millionaire. "If I move, what are the chances of my being pricked with your pretty toy?"

"Depends how you move," answered the Saint. "If, for instance, you relaxed the right hand, so as to allow the ugly toy now reposing there to descend upon the carpet with what is known to journalists as a sickening thud — then, I might say that the chances are about one thousand to one against."

Bittle opened his hand, and the gun dropped. He stepped to one side, and the Saint, with a swift sweeping glide, picked up the weapon and dropped it into his pocket. At the same time he replaced his own weapon in its concealed sheath.

"Now we can be matey again," remarked Simon with satisfaction. "What's the next move? Taking things in a broad way, I can't credit your bunch with much brilliance so far. Dear old Spittle, why on earth must you make such an appalling bloomer? Don't you know that according to the rules of this game you ought to remain shrouded in mystery until Chapter Thirty? Now you've been and gone and spoiled my holiday," complained the Saint bitterly, "and I don't know how I shall be able to forgive you."

"You are a very extraordinary man, Mr. Templar."

The Saint smiled.

"True, O King. But you're quite as strange a specimen as ever went into the Old Bailey. For a retired grocer, your command of the Oxford language is astonishing."

Bittle did not answer, and the Saint gazed genially around and seemed almost surprised to see Patricia standing a little behind him. The girl had not known what to make of most of the conversation, but she had recovered from her immediate fear. There was a large assurance about everything the Saint did and said which inspired her with uncomprehending courage — even as it inspired Bittle with uncomprehending anxiety.

"Hope we haven't bored you," murmured Simon solicitously. "Would you like to go home?"

She nodded, and Templar looked at the millionaire.

"She would like to go home," Templar said in his most winning voice.

A thin smile touched Bittle's mouth.

"Just when we're getting matey?" he queried.

"I'm sure Miss Holm didn't mean to offend you," protested Simon. He looked at the girl, who stared blankly at him, and turned to Bittle with an air of engaging frankness. "You see? It's only that she's rather tired."

Bittle turned over the cigars in a box on a side table near the Saint, selected one, amputated the tip, and lighted it with the loving precision of a connoisseur. Then he faced Templar blandly.

"That happens to be just what I can't allow at the moment," said Bittle in an apologetic tone. "You see, we have some business to discuss."

"I guess it'll keep," said the Saint gently.

"I don't think so," said Bittle.

Templar regarded the other thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then, with a shrug, he jerked the millionaire's automatic from his pocket and walked to the French windows. He opened one of them a couple of inches, holding it with his foot, and signed to the girl to follow him. With her beside him, he said:

"Then it looks, Bittle, as if you'll spend to-morrow morning burying a number of valuable dogs."

"I don't think so," said Bittle.

There was a quiet significance in the way he said it that brought the Saint round again on the alert.

"Go hon!" mocked Simon watchfully.

Bittle stood with his head thrown back and his eyes half closed, as though listening. Then he said:

"You see, Mr. Templar, if you look in the cigar box you will find that the bottom sinks back a trifle under quite a light pressure. In fact, it acts as a bell push. There are now three men in the garden as well as four bloodhounds, and two more in the passage outside this room. And the only dog I can imagine myself burying to-morrow morning is an insolent young puppy, who's chosen to poke his nose into my business."