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Table of contents

Cover
Halftitle
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1 Introduction
Chapter 2 Descriptive Statistics
Chapter 3 Probability
Chapter 4 Discrete Random Variables
Chapter 5 Continuous Random Variables
Chapter 6 Bivariate Probability Distributions and Sampling Distributions
Chapter 7 Estimation Using Confidence Intervals
Chapter 8 Tests of Hypotheses
Chapter 9 Categorical Data Analysis
Chapter 10 Simple Linear Regression
Chapter 11 Multiple Regression Analysis
Chapter 12 Model Building
Chapter 13 Principles of Experimental Design
Chapter 14 The Analysis of Variance for Designed Experiments :
Chapter 15 Nonparametric Statistics
Chapter 16 Statistical Process and Quality Control
Chapter 17 Product and System Reliability
Appendix A Matrix Algebra
Appendix B Useful Statistical Tables
Appendix C SAS for Windows Tutorial
Appendix D MINITAB for Windows Tutorial
Appendix E SPSS for Windows Tutorial
References
Selected Short Answers
Credits
Index
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 Soon afterwards Simon and Patricia left. They walked the short
distance to the Manor without speaking, for the Saint was enjoying
the novel experience of finding his flow of small talk entirely dried
up. He had thought of nothing to say until the girl was opening the
door, and then he could only make a postponement.
“May I see you to-morrow morning?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I’ll come right after breakfast.”
Suddenly she remembered Agatha Girton.
“I think—would you mind if I came over to you instead?”
“I’d love you to. And if I haven’t bored you to tears by then, you
can stay for lunch. Tell me what time you’ll be leaving, and I’ll send
Orace over to fetch you.”
She was surprised.
“Is that necessary?”
“Very necessary,” replied the Saint gravely. “Tigers have nasty
suspicious minds, just like me, and by this time one Tiger is
wondering just how dangerous you are, Pat. Yes, I know it’s
screamingly funny, but let me send Orace—for my own peace of
mind.”
“Well—— About half-past ten, if you like.”
“I do. And Orace will adore it. One other thing. Will you do me a
great favour?”
She had found the switch in the hall, and she turned on the light
to see his face better, but he was not joking.
“Lock your door, and put the key under the pillow. Don’t open to
anybody—not even your aunt. I don’t really think anything’ll happen
so soon, but Tigers can hustle. Will you?”
She nodded.
“You’re very alarming,” she said.
“I’m full of ideas to-night,” he said. “I’ve had a taste of the Tiger’s
speed, and nobody ever stung the Saint in the same way twice.
Don’t believe any messages except they’re brought by Orace. Don’t
trust anybody but me, Orace, or old Carn at a pinch. I know it’s a tall
order, but there are one or two rough days—not to mention rough
nights—in store for the old brigade. You’ve been perfectly marvellous
so far. Can you keep it up?”
“I’ll try,” she said.
He took her hand.
“God bless you, Pat, old pal.”
“Saint——”
He was going when she stopped him. It was odd to hear that
nickname fall from her lips—the name wherewith the Saint had been
christened in strange and ugly places, by hard and godless men. He
had grown so used to it that he had come to accept it without
question, but now the sound of it brought a flood of memories. Once
again he stood in the Bosun’s smoky bar at the back of Mexico City,
looking from the huddled corpse of Senhor Miguel Grasiento to the
girl called Cherry, and heard the rurales pounding on the door. He
had got her away, on an English tramp bound for Liverpool. “ ‘Saint,’ ”
she had said—“that was a true word spoken in jest.” And he had
never heard the name uttered in the same tone since until that
moment. . . .
“Saint, did you really go to Bloem’s?”
“I did not,” he answered. “That was a frame-up. But Mynheer
Bloem is certainly one of the Tiger Cubs. Watch him! I’ll tell you the
whole yarn to-morrow. Bye-bye, kid.”
The Saint found Orace in the lane, curled up under the hedge,
philosophically smoking his pipe.
“We’ll work inland round the village,” said Simon, “I’m hoping the
Tiger’s had enough for one night, but you never know. Nobody’s got
any proof that Bloem was lying about that hold-up merchant, except
me, and a fairy tale like that cuts both ways. If our bodies were
found in a field in the morning, the whole thing’d fit in beautifully.”
Nevertheless, they were not molested on the way back—a fact
which might well have been due to the Saint’s foresight. It took an
hour of the Saint’s killing pace to do the journey which would have
lasted only fifteen minutes by the obvious route, and even then
Simon was not satisfied.
When the outline of the Pill Box loomed dimly up against the dark
sky, he stopped.
 “Booby traps have caught mugs before now,” he murmured. “Just
park yourself in the nettles here, Orace, while I snoop round.”
The Saint could have given most shikars points when it came to
moving across country without being noticed. Orace simply saw a
tall shape melt soundlessly away into the gloom, and thereafter
could trace nothing until the tall shape materialised again beside
him.
“All clear,” said Simon. “That means our Tiger’s burning the
midnight oil thinking out something really slick and deadly.”
The Saint was right. Although he and Orace never relaxed their
vigilance, taking it in turns to sleep and keep watch, they were left
in peace. The Tiger had taken one blind shot, and it had not come
off. Moreover, if his organisation had been only a shade less
thorough, it might have landed him in the tureen. As it was, he had
come out of the encounter none too well. And for the future he
intended to have his moves mapped out well in advance, with every
possible set-back and development legislated for.
None of these reflections disturbed the Saint’s sleep. He had taken
the first watch, and so the sun was shining gaily through the
embrasures when he awoke for the second time, to find Orace
setting a cup of tea down by his bedside.
“Nice morning,” remarked Orace, according to ritual, and vanished
again.
Since the episode of the bullet out of the blue, Simon had
reluctantly decided to forgo his morning dip until the air had become
clearer. However, he skipped and shadow-boxed in the sun with
especial vigour, and finished up with Orace splashing a couple of
buckets of water over him, what time the Saint lay on the grass
drawing deep grateful breaths and blessing his perfect condition. For
the Saint saw a fierce and wearing scrap ahead, and he reckoned
that he would need all his strength and stamina if he was going to
be on his feet when the gong clanged for the last round.
“Brekfuss narf a minnit,” said Orace.
The Saint was grinning as he dressed. Orace was nearly too good
to be true.
 They were late that morning, and Orace left to fetch Patricia as
soon as he had served “brekfuss.” The girl arrived in half an hour, to
find the Saint spread-eagled in a deck chair outside the Pill Box. He
had managed to unearth another pair of flannel bags and another
shooting-jacket that were nearly as disreputable as the outfit which
had been wrecked in Bittle’s garden the night before, and he looked
very fresh and comfortable, for his shirt, as usual, would have put
snow to shame.
He jumped up and held out both his hands, and she gave him
both of hers.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said. “How are we?”
“Fine,” she told him. “And nothing happened.”
She was cool and slim in white, and he thought he had never seen
anyone half so lovely.
“Something might have,” he said. “And when I was a Boy Scout
they taught me to Be Prepared.”
He rigged a chair for her and adjusted the cushions, and then he
sat down again.
“I know you’re bursting with curiosity,” he said, “so I’ll come
straight to the ’osses.”
And without further ado he started on the long history. He told her
about Fernando, dying out in the jungle with a Tiger Cub’s kris in
him, and he told her Fernando’s story. He told her about the Tiger,
who was for years Chicago’s most brilliant and terrible gang leader.
He told her about some of the Tiger’s exploits, and finally came to
the account of the breaking of the Confederate Bank. Some of the
details Fernando had told him; the rest he had gathered together by
patient investigation; the accumulation worked up into a plot hair-
raising enough to provide the basis of the wildest film serial that was
ever made.
“The Tiger’s very nearly a genius,” he said. “The way he got away
with that mint of money and carted it all the miles to here is just a
sample of his brain.”
Then he told her about the more recent events—the little he had
learned while he had been in Baycombe. How he had been
suspected from the day of his arrival, and how he had done his best
to encourage that suspicion, in the hope that the other side would
give themselves away by trying to dispose of him. Gradually the lie
of the land took shape in her mind, while the Saint talked on, putting
in a touch of character here and there, recalling points that he had
omitted and referring to details that he had not yet given. The story
was not told smoothly—it rattled out, paused, and rattled on again,
decorated with the Saint’s typical racy idiom and humorous egotism.
Nevertheless, it held her, and it was a convincing story, for the Saint
had a gift for graphic description. She saw the scenes at which she
had been present in a new light.
He ended up with a flippant account of the sport chez Bittle after
he had helped her get away.
“And there you have it,” he concluded. “Heard in cold blood, with
the sun shining and all that, it sounds preposterous enough to make
dear old Munchausen look like gospel. But you’ve seen a bit of it
yourself, and perhaps that’ll make it easier for you to believe the
rest. And what it boils down to is that the Tiger is in Baycombe, and
so am I, and so are the pieces of eight; and the Tiger wants my
head on a tin tray, and I want his ill-gotten gains, and we’re both
pretty keen to hang on to our respective possessions. So, taken by
and large, it looks like we shall come to blows and other Wild and
Woolly Western expressions of mutual ill-feeling. And the point is,
Pat, and the reason why I felt you had a right to know all the odds—
is that you’ve gone and cut in on the game. By last night, the Tiger
had to face the risk that I might have talked to you, and the way you
behaved generally won’t have eased his mind any. You might be a
danger or you might not, but he can’t afford to take chances. To be
on the safe side, he’s got to assume that you and I are as thick as
thieves. So you see, old soul, you’re slap in the middle of this here
jamboree, whether you like it or not. You’re cast for second juvenile
lead in the bloodcurdling melodrama now playing, and your name’s
up in red lights all round the Tiger’s den—and the question before
the house is, What Do We Do About It?”
He was leaning forward so that he could see her face, and she
knew that he was desperately serious. She knew, also, instinctively,
that he was not a man to exaggerate the situation, however much
he might play the buffoon in other directions.
“Now, here’s my suggestion,” said the Saint. “I know a bloke called
Terry Mannering, who lives on the other side of Devonshire, and he
can deal with fun and games as well as I can. He has a wife, whom
you’ll love, and a very good line in yachts, being nearly as rich as I
should like to be since his Old Man kicked the bucket. If I took you
over and told Terry that it’d be good for all your healths if you went
cruising off to the West Indies or somewhere else a long way off for
a few months, till the tumult and the shouting dies, so to speak, and
the Tigers and their Cubs depart—well, I know the three of you’d be
on the high seas in no time. And the Tiger and I would be rude to
each other for a bit, and when it was all over and he was decently
buried I’d let you know and you could come back. What about it?”
Patricia studied her shoe; and she said, in a very Saintly way:
“What, indeed?”
“You said?” rapped Simon.
“What about it?” queried Patricia. “It might be rather a good idea
some time, but you can’t rush it like that. Besides, I’m rather
enjoying myself in Baycombe.”
Simon got up.
“Well, I’m not enjoying your enjoyment,” he said bluntly. “That
sort of courage is all very fine when it’s to some purpose—but this
time it isn’t. I’ve never dragged a woman into my little worries yet,
and I’m not starting now. Perhaps you think this is going to be a
picnic. I thought I’d made it plain enough that it isn’t. If you want to
pack a few thrills into your young life, I’ll arrange a big-game
shooting trip, or something else comparatively tame, later. But this
particular spree is not in your line one bit, and you’d better be
sensible and admit it.”
Patricia raised her eyebrows.
“So I gather you propose to kidnap me,” she said calmly. “I believe
‘shanghai’ is the word. Well, I should start planning right away—
because nothing short of that is going to move me.”
“You’re a damned fool,” said the Saint.
 She laughed, standing up to him and laying a hand on his
shoulder.
“Dear man,” she said, “I refuse to lose my temper, because I know
that’s just what you want me to do. You think that if you’re rude
enough I’ll dash off and leave you to stew. And I can promise you I
shan’t do anything of the sort. I know it isn’t going to be a picnic—
but I’m sorry if you think I’m a girl that’s only fit for picnics. I’ve
always fancied myself as the heroine of a hell-for-leather adventure,
and this is probably the only chance I shall ever have. And I’m jolly
well going to see it through!”
Simon held himself in check with an effort. He had a frantic
impulse to take this stubborn slip of a girl across his knee and spank
some sense into her; and coincidently with that he had an equally
importunate desire to hug her and kiss her to death. For there was
no doubt that she was determined to ride on to the kill, however
dangerous the country her obstinate intention led her over. Why she
should be so set on it beat the Saint. He could imagine a high-
spirited girl fancying herself as the heroine of just such an
adventure, but he had never dreamed of meeting a girl who’d go on
fancying herself quite so keenly when it came to the point, and
when she’d had a peek at some of the stern and spiky
disadvantages. But there she was, smiling into his eyes, tranquilly
announcing her resolution to see the shooting-match through with
him, and boldly averring that she was perfectly prepared to eat the
whole cake as well as the icing. She was going to be the blazes of a
nuisance and the mischief of a worry to him—“But, Hell!” swore the
Saint to himself—“I’m darn glad of it!” Wherein he betrayed his
egotism. It would be a gruelling test for her, but he’d have her with
him all the time. And if she came through it with flying colours, well,
maybe after all he’d go the way of most confirmed bachelors. . . .
And since he saw that neither cajoling nor cursing would budge
her, he accepted the situation like a wise man. And even then (with
such an inferiority complex is Love afflicted) the sublime egotist did
not spot the foundation of her determination, though it stuck out a
mile. Nevertheless, in his blindness he was very near to blundering
straight into the heart of the affair. His scowl relaxed, and he took
her hand from his shoulder and held it.
“I’ve known some fool women,” said the Saint, “but I never met
one whose foolishness appealed to me more than yours.”
“Then—it’s a bet?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You said it, partner. And the Lord grant we win. It’s not my fault if
you insist on jazzing into the Tiger’s den, but it’ll be my unforgivable
fault if I don’t yank you out again safely. Shake!”
“Bless you,” said Patricia softly.
 Chapter IX.
Patricia Perseveres
“Well,” remarked Simon Templar, breaking a long silence as lightly
as he could, “where do we go from here, old Pat?”
She disengaged her hand and sat down again; and he shifted his
own chair round so that they were knee to knee. She was chilled by
the definiteness with which he reverted to pure business, though
later she realised that he did so only because he was afraid of letting
himself go, and possibly incurring her displeasure by forcing the
pace.
“I’ve also a story to tell,” she said, “and it came out only last
night.”
And she gave him a full account of Agatha Girton’s confession.
For such a loquacious man, he was an astonishingly attentive
listener. It was a side of his character which she had not seen before
—the Saint concentrating. He did not interrupt her once, sitting back
with his eyes shut and his face so composed that he might well have
been asleep. But when she had finished he was frowning
thoughtfully.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said the Saint. “So Aunt Aggie is one of
the bhoys? But what in the sacred name of haggis could anyone
blackmail Aunt Aggie with? Speaking quite reverently, I can’t imagine
she was ever ravishing enough, even in her prime, to acquire
anything like a Past.”
“It does seem absurd, but——”
The Saint scratched his head.
“What do you know about her?”
 “Very little, really,” Patricia replied. “I’ve sort of always taken her
for granted. My mother died when I was twelve—my father was
killed hunting three years before that—and she became my
guardian. I never saw much of her until quite recently. She spent
most of her time abroad, on the Riviera. She had a villa at Hyères. I
stayed on at school very late, and I was generally alone here during
the holidays—I mean, she was away, though I usually had school
friends staying with me, or I stayed with them. She didn’t do much
for me, but my bills were paid regularly, and she wrote once a
fortnight.”
“When did she settle down in Baycombe, then?”
“When she came back from South Africa. About six years ago I
had a letter from her from Port Said, saying that she was on her way
to the Cape. She was away a year, and I hardly had a line from her.
Then one day she turned up and said she’d had enough of travelling
and was going to live at the Manor.”
“And did she?”
“She used to go abroad occasionally, but they were quite short
trips.”
“When was the last expedition?”
She pondered.
“About two years ago, or a bit less. I can’t remember the exact
date.”
“Now think,” suggested the Saint—“roughly, you hardly saw her at
all between the time she introduced herself as your guardian, when
you were twelve, until she came back from South Africa, when you
were sixteen or seventeen.”
“Nearer seventeen.”
“And in that time anything might have happened.”
She shrugged.
“I suppose so. But it’s too ridiculous. . . .”
“Of course it is,” agreed Simon blandly. “It’s all too shriekingly
ridiculous for words. It’s ridiculous that our Tiger should have broken
the Confederate Bank of Chicago and lugged the moidores over to
Baycombe to await disposal. It’s ridiculous to think that there are
some hundredweights of twenty-two carat gold hidden somewhere
not two miles from here. But there are. What we’ve got to assume is
that on this joy ride nothing is too ridiculous to be real. Which
reminds me—what do you know about the old houses in Baycombe?
There must be something conspicuously old enough for Fernando to
have thought The Old House was sufficient address.”
He was surprised at her immediate answer.
“There are two that’d fit,” she said. “One is just out of the village,
inland. It used to be an inn, and the name of it was The Old House.
It’s falling to bits now—the proprietor lost his licence in the year Dot,
and nobody took it over. It’s supposed to be haunted. The windows
are all boarded up, and a dozen men could live there without being
seen if they went in and out at night.”
The Saint smashed fist into palm, his eyes lighting up.
“Moonshine and Moses!” he whooped. “Pat, you’re worth a fortune
to this partnership! And I was just thinking we’d come to a standstill.
Why, we haven’t moved yet! . . . What’s the other one?”
“The island just round the point.” She waved her arm to the east.
“The fishermen call it the Old House, but you wouldn’t have noticed
it because it only looks like that from the sea. The sides are very
steep, and on one side it juts right out over the water, like those old
houses where the first floor is bigger than the ground floor.”
Simon jumped up and walked to the edge of the cliff, so that he
could see the island. It was about a mile from the shore—nothing
but an outcrop of rock thickly overgrown with bushes and stunted
trees. He came back jubilant.
“It might be either,” he said exultantly, “or it might be both—the
Tiger may have a home from home in your defunct pub, and he may
have parked the doubloons on the island. Anyway, we’ll draw both
covers and see. Thinking it over, I guess I’ve hit it. The Tiger’d want
to have the gold in some place he could ship it from easily—
remember it’s got to go to Africa. And by the same token . . . Here,
hold on half a sec.”
He disappeared into the Pill Box and came back in a moment with
field-glasses. Then he focused on the horizon and began to sweep it
carefully from west to east. He had covered three-quarters of the arc
when he stopped and stared for a full minute, suddenly rigid.
 “And there she blows,” he muttered.
He handed her the binoculars and pointed north-east.
“See what you make of it.”
“It looks like a couple of masts sticking up.”
“Motor ship—no funnels,” he explained. “The Bristol shipping
passes here, but we’re back in a sort of big bay, and I don’t think
they’d stand in as near as that. But we’ll just make sure.”
He took the glasses from her again and went into the Pill Box, and
she followed. He fossicked about in the kitchen till he found a piece
of board, the remains of a packing-case, and this he settled in one
of the embrasures, truing it up level with little wedges of newspaper.
Then he put the field-glasses on it and took a sight on one of the
masts by means of a couple of pins stuck in the board.
“We’ll give her five minutes.”
She grasped his meaning at once.
“You think they’re waiting to come in after dark?”
“No less. Comrade Bloem hasn’t done all he’d like to with T. T.
Deeps, but he’ll have some weeks’ grace while the stuff’s getting to
the mine. And he daren’t let it lie around here any longer, in case my
luck holds and I don’t get bumped off according to schedule. I’ve
rattled the Tiger!”
He was keeping an eye on his watch, and the minutes ticked away
very slowly.
“Is Dr. Carn a detective?” she asked.
“That’s hit it in one,” affirmed the Saint. “But don’t let on you
know. It wouldn’t be sporting not to give the old boy a fair run.”
“Then aren’t you a detective?” she stammered in bewilderment. “I
thought you were friendly rivals—that was the only explanation I
could work out last night.”
The Saint smiled grimly.
“Rivals—more or less friendly—yes,” he said. “But I’m not a
detective, and never was. I’m playing for my own hand, with an
enormous quantity of ha’pence coming to me if I win, and
everybody’s kicks if I lose. Profession, gentleman adventurer: i.e.,
available for any job involving plenty of money and plenty of trouble,
suitable for a man who doesn’t bother much about the letter of the
law and who’s prepared to take his licking without a yelp if he gets
landed. That’s me. Like this. I happened to find Fernando, and as
soon as I’d got the thing taped out I took a trip to Chicago and saw
the boss of the Confederate. ‘Here’s nearly a year since your strong
room was busted,’ I said, ‘and the dicks haven’t brought you back
one cent of the almighties. Now suppose you let me have a shot.
Terms, twenty per cent. commission if I bring it off. Not a bean if I
don’t. Me to work on my lonesome, without reporting to anybody,
and to take all the blame if I’m run over.’ Well, that put them on
something to nothing, so they bit. And there you are.”
He was looking steadily at her, but she did not change colour. But
the Saint was never a faker, and this was his call to clean the whole
sheet, so that she could take it or leave it as she chose and would
never be able to say he hadn’t played square. He rubbed it in with
brutal directness.
“That’s the way I’ve lived for years. Pretty well, all things
considered, so that if this gamble turns up I’ll be able to retire and
settle down as soon as I like, and not have to stint myself anywhere.
In those years I’ve committed about half the crimes in the Calendar,
at the expense of crooks. It’s a sporting game—man to man, and
devil take the mug: and the police, for obvious reasons, aren’t
invited to interfere by either side. Bloem’s the first to break that rule;
but the Tiger isn’t a sportsman—he’s just a pot-hunter. Still, I doubt
if your friends would appreciate my success in that career. D’you still
want to be a partner in the firm?”
She sighed.
“Saint, you’re an ass,” she said. “And if you exhibit any symptoms
of virulent imbecility I shall fire you and become managing director
myself.”
“Hell’s bells,” ejaculated Simon, unwontedly moved, and swung
away.
Very carefully, so as not to disturb the board, he took another
sight at the ship’s masts; and presently he straightened up with a
light of triumph breaking on his face.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “She hasn’t shifted a millimetre. Rotten
bad navigation. I’d have known the height of my masts to an inch,
and the height of the cliffs here ditto, and I’d have figured out my
position to six places of decimals. . . . But the Tiger’s loss is our
gain!”
“They’ll start to come in at sunset,” she took him up excitedly.
“And——”
“And I’ll be there,” said the Saint. “It’s a moonlight swim for me
to-night. That’s great—to let the Tiger Cubs themselves lead me to
the cache! But the snag is . . . Holy Habbakuk . . . they’ll be waiting
for me.” She stared. “They know I’ll invite myself, bless it!”
“Why?”
“Because they know I’m wise to this Old House joke. I let on, like
a fool. That was a poisonous bad bloomer! I was ragging old Bloem
about Fernando, just seeing how much breeze I could put up him,
and I mentioned the Old House. They’ll think I knew exactly what
and where it was. Oh, crumbs and crutches! D’you mind kicking me
as hard as you can?”
She was as distressed as he was. It was in no half-hearted
manner that she had enlisted in the army of adventurers. A setback
stung her as much as anybody. She bit her lip.
“But they’re coming in,” she insisted.
“Yes—forewarned and forearmed to the teeth. If I happen to have
been a bit slow on the uptake, well and good. If I haven’t, and think
I’ll butt in, they’ll be ready for me. Maybe the Tiger’s patting himself
on the back right now, bucked to death with his dandy little scheme
for getting away with the oof and me too. Well, it’s up to me to hand
him the jar of his life. Sit tight a shake while I think.”
He dropped into a chair and lighted a cigarette, his brain reeling
and humming to encompass this new twist to the problem.
Undoubtedly he had sized it up right—the Tiger was giving himself a
double chance. And that move had got to be baulked somehow. But
how? The Saint had only to breathe a word to Carn, and the Tiger
was dished. But then so was the Saint. That put that out of bounds.
He was fully prepared to swim out to the Old House that night,
with Anna strapped to his arm, and trust to the inspiration of the
moment to show him a way of beating the gang, even if they were
watching and waiting for him. That was an honest toss-up with
sudden death, and Simon took risks of that stamp without turning a
hair. But on the other hand he liked to have at least a shadowy loop-
hole for emergencies—there was no point in chucking the game
away for lack of a little forethought. And how to provide that loop-
hole? The Tiger’s forces were large: the Saint could reckon on only
Orace and the girl, besides himself. And he didn’t want to push a slip
of a girl into the front line, however keen she might be to go. How
to make three people—or nearer two and a half—do the work of a
platoon was a poser worthy of the undivided attention of a great
general. Manifestly, it could not be done by any ordinary means.
Therefore, there must be subtlety.
And the Tiger had the added advantage of being the attacker.
Simon’s cigarette began to smoulder down in his fingers unnoticed.
That was a point! The Tiger was sitting high and dry in his den,
hatching plots and making raids and forays when the spirit moved
him; while the Saint had to sit on the fence with his eyes skinned,
just parrying the Tiger’s thrusts. And it became clear to the Saint
that there was something unfair about that arrangement. True, the
Saint had made one attack—but why let the offensive stop there?
The enemy had an idea that he would come lunging in again that
night: well, so he might, if it looked like a good tussle and he felt in
the mood. But that didn’t imply an armistice until zero hour, by any
manner of means. Quite a lot of skirmishing could take place before
the big battle—and every blow of it would bother the Tiger and help
harrass his organisation for the last rounds. There really was no
earthly reason why the Tiger should have it all his own way.
Where to launch the attack? The other Old House sprang to his
mind at once. They might be expecting him to turn up there, but
they would hardly anticipate his arrival in broad daylight. Which was
just the way he might catch them on the hop. Or the dilapidated inn
might be a false scent—in which case there was nothing but the
state of his own nerves to stop him paying a call on Bloem. The
prospects began to look brighter, and suddenly the Saint sat up with
a broad grin illuminating his face.
“I’ve very nearly got it,” he announced.
“Do let’s hear!”
 She was flushed and eager, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted, like
a splendid young Diana. She made a picture that in the abstract
would have delighted the pagan Saint, but in the concrete it brought
him up with a jerk. Next thing he knew, she’d be demanding to be
allowed to accompany him on the whole tour.
“Simply the germ of an idea to wallop the Tiger Cubs when they
come in for the spondulicks,” he lied, thinking furiously. “You see,
gold’s shocking weighty stuff, so they’ll have to ferry it to the ship in
small doses. That’ll mean they’ll have about three of the ship’s boats
running in relays—if they tried to take too big a load at once it’d
simply drop through the bottom. And the crew’ll be pretty small. A
motor ship doesn’t take much running, and they’d want to keep the
numbers down in any case, because the seaman who can be relied
on not to gossip in port is a rare bird. If we’re lucky, the skipper’ll be
ashore getting his orders from the Tiger, and that’ll make one less to
tackle. Otherwise, the Tiger’ll go aboard himself, and that’ll be one
more to pip—though the fish’ll be worth the extra trouble of landing.
In any event, the general idea is this: we’re going to have a stab at
pinching that hooker!”
The Saint was capable of surprising himself. That plan of
campaign, rigged out on the spur of the moment to put the girl off
the main trail, caught hold of his imagination even as he improvised
it. He ended on a note of genuine enthusiasm, and found that she
was wringing his hands joyfully.
“That’s really brilliant,” she bubbled. “Oh, Saint, it’s going to be the
most fearfully thrilling thing that ever happened—if we can only
bring it off!”
He gazed sadly down at her. There it was—a tank of mulligatawny
big enough to drown a brontosaurus, and he’d fallen right in before
he knew what was happening. He shook his head.
“Kid,” he said, “piracy on the low seas isn’t part of the curriculum
at Mayfield, is it?”
“I can swim a couple of miles any day of the week.”
“Can you climb eighteen feet of anchor chain at the end of it?”
objected the Saint. “Can you back yourself to put a man to sleep
before he can loose a yell? Can you make yourself unpleasant with a
belaying-pin if it comes to a riot? I hate to have to damp your
ardour, Pat, but a woman can’t be expected to play that game.”
She was up in arms at once.
“Saint, you’re trying to elbow me out again!” she accused.
“Possibly you’ve never met anybody like me before—I flatter myself
I’m a bit out of the ruck in some ways. And I won’t be packed up in
cotton-wool! Whatever you go into, I’m going with you.”
Then he let her have it from the shoulder.
“Finally,” he said in a level voice, “how d’you fancy yourself as a
prisoner on that tub, at the mercy of a bunch like the Tiger’s, if we
happen to lose? We might, you know. Think it over.”
“You needn’t worry,” she said. “I shall carry a gun—and save one
cartridge.”
The Saint’s fists clenched. His mouth had set in a hard line, and
his eyes were blazing. The Saintly pose had dropped from him like
the flimsy mask it was, and for the first and last-but-one time she
saw Simon Templar in a savage fury.
“And—you think—you, my girl, you——” The words dropped from
his tense lips like chips of white-hot steel. “You think I shall let you—
take—that chance?”
“Is there any logical reason, my man, why you shouldn’t?”
“Yes, there is!” he stormed. “And if you aren’t damned careful
you’ll hear it—and I don’t care how you take it!”
She tossed her head.
“Well, what is it?”
“This,” said Simon deliberately—“I love you.”
“But, you dear priceless idiot,” said Patricia, “hasn’t it occurred to
you that the only reason I’m in this at all is because I love you?”
For a space he stared. Then——
“Burn it,” said the Saint shakily, “why couldn’t you say so before?”
But after that there was only one thing to do. For a man so
unversed in the ways of women he did it exceedingly well.
 Chapter X.
The Old House
It was Orace, that stern disciplinarian, who ruthlessly interrupted
the seance in order to lay the table for lunch. That was half an hour
later, though Simon and Pat would both have sworn that the
interlude had lasted no more than a short half-minute. The Saint
moved away to an embrasure and gazed out at the rippling blue sea,
self-conscious for the first time in his life. The girl began to tidy her
hair. But Orace, after one disapproving glance round, brazenly
continued with his task, as though no amount of objections to his
intrusion could stop him enforcing punctuality.
“Lunch narf a minnit,” warned Orace, and returned to the kitchen.
The Saint continued to admire the horizon with mixed feelings. He
was sufficiently hardened in his lawless career to appreciate the
practical disadvantages of Romance with a big R horning in at that
stage of the proceedings. Why in the name of Noah couldn’t the love
and kisses have waited their turn and popped up at the conventional
time, when the ungodly had been duly routed and the scene was all
set for a fade-out on the inevitable embrace? But they hadn’t, and
there it was. The Saint was ready to sing and curse simultaneously.
That the too marvellous Patricia should be in love with him was all
but too good to be true—but the fact that she was, and that he
knew it, quadrupled his responsibility and his anxieties.
It was not until Orace had served lunch and departed again that
they could speak naturally, and by then a difficult obstacle of
shyness had grown up between them to impose a fresh restraint.
 “So you see,” remarked Patricia at last, “you can’t leave me out of
it now.”
“If you cared anything about my feelings,” returned the Saint,
somewhat brusquely, “you’d respect them—and give way.”
She shook her head.
“In anything else in the world,” she said, “but not in this.”
So that was that. Simon had used up all his arguments, and
further effort to combat her resolution would only be tedious. She
won. Short of an appeal to brute strength, he hadn’t a thing left to
do except grin and bear it and do his best to make the going as safe
as ingenuity could. And like many strong men the Saint shrank from
applying cave-man measures.
At that moment he would even have considered throwing up the
sponge, tipping the wink to Carn, and sliding out of the picture.
What stopped him from taking that desperate way out was a shrewd
understanding of the girl’s character. Somehow, out of a normal
education and a simple life in a forgotten country village, she had
acquired the standards of a qualified adventuress—in the clean
sense. And she had a ramrod will to back her up. She felt that it was
only the game to stand by her man in any and every kind of trouble,
and she meant to play the game according to her lights. She would
only despise him if he refused to carry on on her account: she was
determined to prove to him by deeds as well as words that she
wasn’t a clinging vine who was going to cramp his style either before
or after the wedding bells. And it was quite hopeless for the Saint to
try and point out to her that she would only hamper him—as
hopeless as it would have been ungracious, bearing in mind the
uniqueness of a girl of her calibre.
But for one thing Simon could and did thank his stars: he had
successfully put her off the track of the first string of his bow—the
disused inn behind the village. He would be able to tackle the
proposition from that angle without her knowledge before nightfall,
and if the Fates played into his hands he might manage to get a
stranglehold on the Tiger before it was her turn to bat.
“If the mountain won’t budge, Mahomet’ll have to leave it where it
is,” said the Saint disarmingly. “But there are one or two knots that
ought to be untied in the course of the afternoon, and that’s where
you can help. One—it might be a sound plot to see if we can’t get
this Aunt Aggie palaver cleared up a bit.”
“She wouldn’t tell me anything last night.”
“You were hardly on form then, with me loose in the menagerie.
This afternoon you can go back full of beans, with a parting hug
from me to pep you up, and lam into Auntie two-fisted. If you can
only carry it, you’ve got her cold. After all, she admits having tapped
your treasure chest to save herself. It isn’t too stiff a return to ask
her to get a bit off her own chest for your satisfaction. I know she’s
a hefty handful, but she isn’t half the size of some of the things
you’ll have to wire into during the next twenty-four hours, and it’ll
limber you up. If she tries to bully you, remember that there isn’t a
bully swaggering the earth that can’t be bullied himself by someone
with the guts to take on the job. And if she finds she can’t treat you
high-handed, and bursts into tears—don’t let ’em dissolve you. I
can’t take her on myself, so I’ve got to rely on you.”
She nodded.
“If you say so, Saint, I shan’t funk it.”
“Good Scout!” he approved. “The other item is old Lapping. He’s
been lying doggo since the beginning of the piece, but there are so
darn few possible winning numbers in this lottery that I think we
ought to get a line on Lapping. On the face of it, he’s right out of the
running—but then, so’s everyone else in Baycombe. And I’m just
wondering about a lad called Harry the Duke.”
“ ‘Harry the Duke’?” she repeated, mystified. “Whoever’s he?”
“A swell mobsman that Lapping sent down for seven years when
he was a judge. It was a nasty piece of work—I’ll spare you the
details—but Harry escaped six years ago, and he never was a
forgiving man, from all accounts. In fact, knowing what’s said about
Harry at the Yard, I’m surprised he hasn’t taken it out of Lapping
before now. There’s a story that Harry followed the first magistrate
who convicted him half-way round the world—and got him. Since
when there was no other, Harry being miles and miles above the
common run of crooks in brains, until Lapping. It’s a long shot, I
know, but bad men run pretty much to pattern, and the Tiger’s
acknowledged to be an Englishman. And the hunch got me recently
—suppose Harry the Duke is the Tiger?”
“Wouldn’t he have been recognised?”
“Harry’s face is pure plasticine, and he’s forgotten more about
make-up than most actors ever learn. And Harry’s one of the few
men I’d credit with brains enough to wear the Tiger’s hat. . . . It’s all
speculation, and long odds against it on probability, but it’s worth a
flutter. You see, if the Tiger did happen to be Harry the Duke—and
the Tiger started operations not so long after Harry broke gaol—it
accounts for Lapping’s continued health. The Tiger’ll just be waiting
till he’s ready to skedaddle with the swag, since Lapping’s right
where he can lay his hands on him any time, and then he’ll pay off
the old score and sail away.”
She was still puzzled.
“But what do you want me to do?” she asked.
“If you’ve got time and energy left after pasting Auntie, go over
and be sweet and winsome to Sir Mike,” replied Simon. “You know
him quite well—lay it on with a spade. Ask him to advise you about
me. That’s sound! If he happened to be in with the Tiger, it might
put you on safer ground, if you can kid them you’re not in my
confidence after all. If he’s harmless, it can’t hurt us. Talk to him as
the old friend and honorary uncle. Tell him about l’affaire Bittle—
noting how he reacts—and lead from that to my eccentric self. You
might say that you felt attracted, and wondered if it was wise to let
it go any further. The blushing ingenuous maiden act.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, and he leaned across the table and touched
her hand.
“You’re a partner in a million, old Pat.”
After lunch Orace served coffee outside, and they sat and smoked
while they discussed the final arrangements.
“I’ll send Orace over to fetch you after dinner,” he said. “I think it’d
be better if I didn’t appear. Put a bathing costume on under your
frock; and when the time comes I’ll give you a belt and the neatest
waterproof holster, that’ll just carry your fit in guns. But I’ll give you
the shooter now.”
 He took a little automatic from his pocket, slipped the jacket to
bring a cartridge into the chamber, and clicked over the safety catch.
“And it’s not for ornament,” he added. “If the occasion calls for it,
let fly, and apologise to the body. Have you ever handled this sort of
gadget?”
“Often. I used to go and shoot in revolver ranges on piers.”
“Then that’s all to the good. Put it away in your pocket—but don’t
flourish it about unnecessarily, because it belongs to Bloem. I picked
his pocket when I was showing him out last night, thinking it might
be handy to have around the house.”
She rose.
“I’d better be getting along,” she said. “I shall have a lot to do this
afternoon. And we assemble after dinner?”
“Eightish,” he said. “Don’t take any risks till then. I just hate
having to let you out of my sight even for as long as that. You never
know what Tigers are up to. All the help I can give you is, distrust
everybody and everything, keep your head and use it, and don’t go
and walk into the first trap that’s set for you like any fool heroine in
a novel.”
Her arms went round his neck, and he held her close to him for a
while. And then she drew back her head and looked up at him with a
smile, though her eyes were brimming.
“Oh, I’m silly,” she said. “But love’s like that, old boy. What about
me letting you out of my sight for so long?”
“I’m safer than the Bank of England,” he reassured her. “The gipsy
told me I’d die in my bed at the ripe old age of ninety-nine. And
d’you think I’m going to let the Tiger or anyone else book me to
Kingdom Come when I’ve got you waiting for me here? I am not!”
And then there had to be a further delay, which need not be
reported. For those who have lost their hearts know all about these
things, and those who haven’t don’t deserve to be told. . . .
But at last he had to let her go, so he kissed her again and then
took her hand and kissed that. And afterwards he took her shoulders
and squared them up, and drew himself up in front of her.
“Soldier’s wives, Pat!” he commanded. “Cheerio—and the best of
luck!”
 “Cheerio, Saint!” she answered. “God bless you. . . .”
She flung him a brave smile, and turned and walked off down the
hill with Orace ambling behind like a faithful dog. Just before the
path led her round a bend and out of sight she stopped and waved
her handkerchief, and the Saint waved back. Then she was gone,
and he wondered if he would ever see her again.
He went back into the Pill Box, took off his coat, rolled up his left
sleeve, and strapped Anna securely to his forearm. That was for
emergencies; but now that the Tiger knew all about Anna the Saint
had to rummage in his bag for her twin sister, and this dangerous
woman he fixed to his left calf in a similar manner, where it would be
quite likely to be overlooked if he were caught and searched. He
made sure that he had his first-aid cigarette case in his hip pocket,
and as an afterthought added to the kit a telescopic rod of the finest
steel with a claw at one end.
As a final precaution, he sat down and scribbled a note:

If I don’t turn up by seven-thirty look for me at the Old House

—the place behind the village that used to be an inn. Failing
that, try Bloem’s or Bittle’s. Don’t go to Carn till you’ve drawn
blank at all those three places. And BE CAREFUL. If they get me
they’ll be on the look out for you.

This he folded, addressed to Orace, and left in a conspicuous

position in the kitchen, where his man would be sure to find it when
he returned.
Then the Saint went swinging down the track towards the village.
It was a ticklish job he was embarking on. In broad daylight
stealth was out of the question. It would mean walking boldly up to
the enemy fortress and trying to get as far as he wanted in one
dash, before the opposition could collect their wits. And then there
would be ructions—but that would have to take care of itself.
The Saint did not remember the Old House very distinctly, and he
paused at the edge of a spinney lower down the hill to survey the
land. And then he gave thanks once again for the continuance of his
phenomenal luck. There it was—the blessing out of the blue that
he’d never dared to hope or pray for—a long low wall that sprang
from one corner of the Old House and ran north towards the
straggly outskirts of the village, losing itself behind a couple of sheds
belonging to a small farm. Hardly believing his good fortune, the
Saint hurried down the slope and passed through the village. He
worked round the farm outbuildings, and found that he was not
deceived. The wall started there, and it was just high enough to
screen his advance if he bent almost double.
That was not a very difficult feat, and Simon plunged straight on
into his adventure. Stooping down, he trotted rapidly along under
cover of the wall till he had nearly reached the nearest corner of the
Old House. At that point he slowed up and proceeded with more
caution, travelling on his toes and finger-tips, in case there should
be a watcher posted at an upper window. When he actually came to
the Old House itself he flattened down on his stomach and lay prone
for a moment while he planned his entrance.
He could see one wall of the Old House—a dead flat facade of
chipped and mouldering brick, broken only by four symmetrically
placed windows and a door. The door was a godsend. The windows
themselves were roughly boarded up, and to prise off those boards,
though it could be done in a brace of shakes, would be rather too
audible for the Saint’s taste; whereas a mere door could probably be
dealt with, by an expert, almost noiselessly.
The Saint wormed his way forwards, fitting himself as snugly as
he could into the angle between the wall and the ground and taking
infinite pains to make no sound that might betray his approach to a
keen ear within. From the moment he left the shelter of the wall,
however, he was in danger of discovery, for if any sentinel had
elected to peer out of a window the Saint would be lucky to be
overlooked. The watcher would probably scrutinise the nearest
cover, in which case his gaze would pass right above the Saint; but
on the other hand the enemy might be well aware of the possibilities
of that too convenient wall, and in that case anyone who was taking
a peek round would certainly cast an eye downwards, and then the
Saint wouldn’t have an earthly. That salutary realisation made him
wriggle along as fast as he could with safety, and it must be
admitted that his spine was tingling and the short hairs on the scruff
of his neck bristling throughout that dozen yards’ crawl. It is not
pleasant to have visions of a man sticking a gun out of an upper
window and plugging a chunk of lead down into your back.
But his head came on a level with the door at last, and nothing so
disastrous had happened. The Saint crept up into a squatting
position and, tentatively, began to breathe again, while he inspected
the door at close quarters.
He found that the handle had snapped off short—in fact, he
discovered the tarnished brass ball lying under a bush a few yards
away. The lock was rusty, and the door sagged on its hinges. The
Saint scratched his head. Either the Old House was not the goods at
all, or the Tiger Cubs were banking a lot on its reputation of being
haunted. He looked again and more closely at the broken end of the
handle lever protruding from the door, and caught his breath. The
jagged metal was shining—not a trace of the rust that flaked over
the rest of the metal dulled its brilliance. That was a new break!
Even in forty-eight hours the exposed steel would have lost some of
that sheen. Therefore, someone had been there recently. And unless
the village children were less superstitious than their elders, that
meant that the Tiger Cubs had graced the premises.
Simon put his hand on the door and pushed gently. It gave back
smoothly at his touch.
The Saint took his hand away as if the wood had burned it. The
door yielded smoothly! It wasn’t locked, or bolted, or barred, and
there wasn’t a creak anywhere. And the doors of houses that haven’t
been inhabited since the year Dot don’t do things like that—for one
thing, the hinges are so rusted up that it takes a thundering good
push to shift them; but these hinges turned like brand-new ones
freshly oiled. That meant that someone certainly was using the Old
House. And, plus the fact that there was apparently nothing to stop
anyone else using it as well, the complete scenery had a howling
warning scrawled all over it. A tight little smile moved the Saint’s
mouth.
“ ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly,”
murmured the Saint. “Surest thing you know, son—but not exactly
like that sort of boob.”
He drew back to think it over, and cast a thoughtful glance at the
boarded windows. But the same difficulty presented itself: to break
away a plank makes a noise at the best of times, and he could now
see that the planks in question were not simply nailed to the frame
but solidly riveted in place. That seemed to rule out the windows,
which left only the door—with someone waiting for him inside, as
like as not. Well, Simon decided, that had got to be faced, and it was
better to tackle something you had a line on than something you
hadn’t. It wasn’t a time for humming and hawing and eventually
leaving your card and promising to look them up next walk you took
that way. He was more than ever determined to get inside the Old
House that afternoon, and the door was the only way in that
presented itself. Therefore, it must be the door.
The Saint pushed the door a little further. Nothing happened. Then
he slowly edged one eye round at a point where no one within
would expect a man to appear—only a few inches off the ground.
But inside was darkness, and he could distinguish nothing. The Saint
swung the door again, until it was over a foot ajar.
Plop!
Just the noise that a big stone makes falling into a well; and
something nicked the door, breaking a burst of splinters out of the
rotten wood. The Saint looked up at the wound, and saw that it
would have been on a level with his chest if he had been standing
up.
That was enough—ultimatum, declaration of war, and attack, all
together. And it meant also that, whatever was waiting for him
inside, it would probably be healthier to charge right in and take it
on than to stick around in the open where half a dozen Tiger Cubs
could take pot-shots at him from the windows. The Saint gathered
himself for the rush and slid Anna out of her sheath. He tested his
muscles, drew a deep breath, and jumped.
One leap took him well inside the door, and in a flash he had
banged it shut again behind him. That evened things up a bit, for it
stopped him being a target against the light outside for any sniper
hidden in the darkness. Then, almost in the same movement, he had
flung back again against the door, in a corner.
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.
Further 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—towards the table and the square box. A
little more investigation brought him to the metal contacts which
closed the electric circuit. 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. So
sorry!”
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 realise 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 the passage and halted by the most dangerous-
looking door.
There was a handle on that door. He turned it and opened 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
materialise. 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.