limbs.
'You took a big chance, Simon,' said the older man, looking down at him; and Simon Templar laughed softly.
'And I had breakfast this morning,' he said. He flipped a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it, and extinguished the match with a gesture of his hand that was an integral part of the smile. 'My dear Bill, I've given up recording either of those earth-shaking events in my diary. They're things that we take for granted in this life of sin.'
The other shook his head.
'You needn't have made it more dangerous.'
'By sending that note?' The Saint grinned. 'Bill, that was an act of devotion. A tribute to some great old days. If I hadn't sent it, I'd have been cheating my reputation. I'd have been letting myself down.'
The Saint let a streak of smoke drift through his lips and gazed through the window at a square of blue sky.
'It goes back to some grand times—of which you've heard,' he said quietly. 'The Saint was a law of his own in those days, and that little drawing stood for battle and sudden death and all manner of mayhem. Some of us lived for it—worked for it—fought for it. One of us died for it. ... There was a time when any man who received a note like I sent to Irboll, with that signature, knew that there was nothing more he could do. And since we're out on this picnic, I'd like things to be the same—even if it's only for a little while.'
He laughed again, a gentle lilt of a laugh that floated through the room like sunshine with a flicker of steel.
'Hence the bravado,' said the Saint. 'Of course that note made it more difficult—but that just gave us a chance to demonstrate our surpassing brilliance. And it was so easy. I had the gun under that outfit, and I caught him as he came out. Just once. . . . Then I let out a thrilling scream and rushed towards him. I was urging him to repent and confess his sins while they were looking for me. There was quite a crowd around, and I think nearly all of them were arrested.'
He slipped an automatic from his pocket and removed the magazine. His long arm reached out for the cleaning materials on a side table which he had been using before he went out. He slipped a rectangle of flannelette through the loop of a weighted cord and pulled it through the barrel, humming musically to himself.
The white-haired man paced over to the window and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back.
'Kestry and Bonacci were here today,' he said.
The Saint's humming continued for a couple of bars. He moistened his cleaning rag with three measured drops of oil.
'Too bad I missed them,' he murmured. 'I've always wanted to observe a brace of your hard-boiled New York cops being tactful with an innocent suspect.'
'You may get your chance soon enough,' said the other grimly, and Simon chuckled.
As a matter of fact, it was not surprising that Inspector John Fernack's team had failed to locate the Saint.
Kestry and Bonacci had had an interesting time. Passing dutifully from one hostelry to another, they had trampled under their large and useful feet a collection of expensive carpets that would have realized enough for the pair of them to retire on in great comfort. They had scanned registers until their eyes ached, discovering some highly informative traces of a remarkable family of John Smiths who appeared to spend their time leaping from one hotel to another with the agility of influenza germs, but finding no record of the transit of a certain Simon Templar. Before their official eyes, aggravating the aforesaid ache, had passed a procession of smooth and immaculate young gentlemen technically described as clerks but obviously ambassadors in disguise, who had condescendingly surveyed the photograph of their quarry and pityingly disclaimed recognition of any character of such low habits amongst their distinguished clientele. Bellboys in caravanserai after caravanserai had gazed knowingly at the large, useful feet on which the tour was conducted, and had whispered wisely to one another behind their hands. There had been an atmosphere of commiserating sapience about the audiences of all their interviews which to a couple of seasoned sleuths professedly disguised as ordinary citizens was peculiarly distressing.
And it was scarcely to be expected that the chauffeur of a certain William K. Valcross, resident of the Waldorf Astoria, would have swum into their questioning ken. They were looking for a tall, dark man of about thirty, described as an addict of the most
