The Saint Closes the Case

his balance by Norman Kent's superhuman effort, stumbled slap into the Saint's left.

It was all over in a split second, before either the Prince or Marius could have realised what was happening and taken advantage of it.

And then Roger's gun was discouraging the movement of the hand towards the hip that Marius had started too late; and Norman Kent, white to the lips with the agony his supreme attempt had cost him, was leaning weakly against the arm of the sofa. And Gerald Harding was stretched out on the floor like a log, with the Saint stooping over him and collecting the second automatic with one hand and the fallen papers with the other.

'That looks better,' said Roger Conway contentedly.

But Norman Kent had not finished.

He was saying, through clenched teeth: 'Give me back those papers, Simon!'

The Saint hesitated, with the sheets crumpled in his hand.

'But——'

'At once!' rang Norman's voice imperatively. 'You've trusted me so far, and I haven't let you down. Trust me a little more.'

He took the papers almost by force, and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he held out his hand again.

'And that gun!'

Simon obeyed. It would have been impossible to refuse. For once, the Saint was not the leader. Perhaps the greatest thing he ever did in all his leadership was to surrender it then, as he surrendered it, without jealousy and without condescension.

But Norman Kent was a man inspired. His personality, which had always been so gentle and reserved, flamed in the , room then like a dark fire.

'That's the first thing,' said Norman. 'And there are only two things more.'

The Prince had not moved. Nothing in those few momen­tous and eventful seconds had provoked the faintest ripple on the tranquil surface of his self-control. He still stood in the position he had taken up when he first entered the room— perfectly at his ease, perfectly calm, perfectly impassive, smoothing his wisp of moustache. Suave and imperturbable, he waited without any visible exertion of patience for the fer­ment to subside and the embroiled items of it to settle down into their new dispositions. It was not until he appeared satis­fied that they had done so that he spoke, with the tiniest of smiles curving his lips.

'Gentlemen,' he remarked, 'you do not disappoint me. I have heard much about you, and seen a little. The little I have seen tells me that the much I have heard may not be greatly exaggerated. If you should ever wish to forsake your careers of crime, and take service with a foreigner, I should be delighted to engage you.'

'Thanks,' said Norman curtly. 'But this is not a crime. In our eyes, it's a far, far better thing than you will ever do. We'll waste no more time. Prince, do you agree that the situation has been simplified?'

The Prince inclined his head.

'I saw you simplify it.'

'And you say that if we give you these papers'—Norman Kent touched his pocket —'we may leave at once, without hindrance?'

'That was my offer.'

'Have we any assurance that you'll stand by it?'

The thin eyebrows went up in expostulation.

'I have given my word.'

'And apart from that?'

'If the word of a gentleman is not enough for you, may I point out that I have twenty-five men here—some in the gar­den, some inside the house on the other side of the door which Mr. Templar has so adroitly barricaded, and some on the river. I have but to give the signal—they have but to hear my voice——' The sentence ended in a significant shrug. 'You are at my mercy. And, after you have given up the papers, what reason could there be for me to detain you further? And, in any case, why should I trouble to offer terms at all, if I did not remember the service you once did me? It is true that Mr. Templar has refused to shake hands with me, but I bear him no malice for that. I may be able to understand his feelings. I have already said that I regret the circumstances. But it is the fortune of war. I make the most generous compromise I can.'

'And yet,' said Norman Kent, 'I should like to be sure that there can be no mistake. I have the papers. Let my friends go, with the girl, in the car that's waiting outside. I'll under­take that they won't warn the police, or come back to attack you; and I'll stay here myself, as a hostage, to give you the papers half an hour after they've left. For that half-hour, you and Marius must remain here as security for the safe-conduct of my friends—at the end of this gun.'

'Highness!'

Marius spoke, standing stiffly to attention.

'Highness, need we have more of this parleying? A word to the men——'

The Prince raised his hand.

'That is not my way, Marius. I owe these gentlemen a debt. And I accept their terms, strange as they seem.' He turned back to Norman. 'But I need hardly add, sir, that if I find any cause to suspect you of treachery, I shall consider the debt cancelled.'

'Of course,' said Norman Kent. 'That is quite fair.'

The Prince stepped to the window.

'Then, if you will permit me——'

He stood in the opening and beckoned, and two men came running. Inside the room, they pocketed their automatics and saluted.

The Prince addressed them briefly, and they saluted again. Then he turned and spoke again in English, with a graceful gesture of his sensitive hands.

'Your car is waiting, gentlemen.'

Both Roger and the Saint looked at Norman Kent puzzledly, doubtfully, almost incredulously; but Norman only smiled.

'Don't forget that you promised to trust me,' he said. 'I know you think I'm mad. But I was never saner in my life. I have found the only solution—the only way to peace with honour.'

Still Simon Templar looked at him, trying to read what was not to be read.

It tore at his heart to leave Norman Kent there like that. And he couldn't make out what inspiration Norman could be acting on. Norman couldn't possibly mean the surrender. That couldn't possibly be called peace with honour. And how Norman could see any way out for himself, alone, hurt and lame as he was . . . But Norman seemed to be without doubt or fear—that was the only thing that could be read in his face, that supernatural confidence and contentment.

And the Saint himself could see no way out, even for the three of them together. The Prince held all the cards. Even if Patricia had been in no danger, and they had shot the Prince and Marius and stood the siege, they must inevitably have been beaten. Even if they had made up their minds to sell their lives in the achievement of their purpose. . . . But Nor­man had not the air of a man who was facing death.

And the Prince's men held Patricia, even as Marius had held her the night before. But the same methods could not pos­sibly be applied this time.

Yet the Saint pleaded: 'Won't you let me stay, son? I do trust you, but I know you're wounded——'

Norman Kent shook his head.

'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'I shall be carried out of here in state.'

'When do we see you?' asked Roger.

Norman gazed dreamily into the distance, and what he saw there seemed to amuse him.

'I shall be some time,' he said.

And he turned to the Prince.

'May I write a short note?'

'I remind you,' said the Prince, 'that you remain here as a guarantee of the good behaviour of your friends.'

'I agreed to that,' said Norman. 'Give me a pen and paper, Roger.'

And once again Marius tried to intervene.

'Highness, you are trusting them too far! This can only be a treachery. If they meant what they said, why