The Saint Closes the Case

. .'

The Saint grinned.

'Appetite of the healthy open-air man. I was splashing mer­rily down the Thames while you two were snoring.'

Norman opened a newspaper.

'Roger was snoring,' he corrected. 'His mouth stays open twenty-four hours a day. And now he's talking with his mouth full,' he added offensively.

'I wasn't eating,' objected Conway.

'You were,' said the Saint crushingly. 'I heard you.'

He reached for the coffee-pot and filled a cup for himself with a flourish.

The premonition of danger that he had had earlier that morning was forgotten—so completely that it was as if a part of his memory had been blacked out. Indeed, he had rarely felt fitter and better primed to take on any amount of odds.

Outside, over the garden and the lawn running down to the river, the sun was shining; and through the open French windows of the morning-room came a breath of sweet, cool air fragrant with the scent of flowers.

The fevered violence of the night before had vanished as utterly as its darkness, and with the vanishing of darkness and violence vanished also all moods of dark foreboding. Those things belonged to the night; in the clear daylight they seemed unreal, fantastic, incredible. There had been a battle —that was all. There would be more battles. And it was very good that it should be so—that a man should have such a cause to fight for, and such a heart and a body with which to fight it. ... As he walked back from his bathe an hour ago, the Saint had seemed to hear again the sound of the trum­pet. ...

At the end of the meal he pushed back his chair and lighted a cigarette, and Conway looked at him expectantly.

'When do we go?'

'We?'

'I'll come with you.'

'O.K.,' said the Saint. 'We'll leave when you're ready. We've got a lot to do. On Monday, Brook Street and all it contains will probably be in the hands of the police, but that can't be helped. I'd like to salvage my clothes, and one or two other trifles. The rest will have to go. Then there'll be bags to pack for you two, to last you out our stay here, and there'll be Pat's stuff as well. Finally, I must get some money. I think that's everything—and it'll keep us busy.'

'What train is Pat travelling on?' asked Norman.

'That might be worth knowing,' conceded the Saint. 'I'll get through on the phone and find out while Roger's dress­ing.'

He got his connection in ten minutes, and then he was speaking to her.

'Hullo, Pat, old darling. How's life?'

She did not have to ask who was the owner of that lazy, laughing voice.

'Hullo, Simon, boy!'

'I rang up,' said the Saint, 'because it's two days since I told you that you're the loveliest and most adorable thing that ever happened, and I love you. And further to ours of even date, old girl, when are you coming home? . . . No, no particular engagement. . . . Well, that doesn't matter. To tell you the truth, we don't want you back too late, but also, to tell you the truth, we don't want you back too early, either. . . . I'll tell you when I see you. Telephones have been known to have ears. . . . Well, if you insist, the fact is that Roger and I are entertaining a brace of Birds, and if you came back too early you might find out. . . . Yes, they are very Game. . . . That's easily settled—I'll look you out a train now if you like. Hold on.'

He turned.

'Heave over the time-table, Norman—it's in that corner, under the back numbers of La Vie Parisienne. . . .'

He caught the volume dexterously.

'What time can you get away from this fete effect? . . . Sevenish? . . . No, that'll do fine. Terry can drive you over to Exeter, and if you get there alive you'll have heaps of time to catch a very jolly-looking train at—— Damn! I'm looking at the week-day trains. . . . And the Sunday trains are as slow as a Scotchman saying good-bye to a bawbee. . . . Look here, the only one you'll have time to catch now is the 4.58. Gets in at 9.20. The only one after that doesn't get to London till nearly four o'clock to-morrow morning. I suppose you were thinking of staying over till to-morrow. . . . I'm afraid you mustn't, really. That is important. . . . Good enough, darling. Expect you at Brook Street about half-past nine. . . . So long, lass. God bless . . .'

He hung up the receiver with a smile as Roger Conway returned after a commendably quick toilet.

'And now, Roger, me bhoy, we make our dash!'

'All set, skipper.'

'Then let's go.'

And the Saint laughed softly, hands on hips. His dark hair was at its sleekest perfection, his blue eyes danced, his brown face was alight with an absurdly boyish enthusiasm. He slipped an arm through Conway's, and they went out to­gether.

Roger approached the car with slower and slower steps. An idea seemed to have struck him.

'Are you going to drive?' he asked suspiciously.

'I am,' said the Saint.

Conway climbed in with an unhappy sigh. He knew, from bitter past experience, that the Saint had original and hair-raising notions of his own about the handling of high-pow­ered automobiles.

They reached Brook Street at half-past four.

'Are you going to drive back as well?' asked Roger.

'I am,' said the Saint.

Mr. Conway covered his eyes.

'Put me on a nice slow train first, will you?' he said. 'Oh, and make a will leaving everything to me. Then you can die with my blessing.'

Simon laughed, and took him by the arm.

'Upstairs,' he said, 'there is beer. And then—work. Come on, sonny boy!'

For three hours they worked. Part of that time Conway gave to helping the Saint; then he went on to attend to his own packing and Norman Kent's. He returned towards eight o'clock, and dumped the luggage he brought with him directly out of his taxi into the Hirondel. The Saint's completed contribution—two steamer trunks on the carrier, and a heavy valise inside—was already there. The Hirondel certainly had the air of assisting in a wholesale removal.

Conway found the Saint sinking a tankard of ale with phenomenal rapidity.

'Oil' said Conway, in alarm.

'Get yours down quickly,' advised the Saint, indicating a second mug, which stood, full and ready, on the table. 'We're off.'

'Off?' repeated Roger puzzledly.

Simon jerked his empty can in the direction of the window.

'Outside,' he said, 'are a pair of prize beauties energetically doing nothing. I don't suppose you noticed them as you came in. I didn't myself, until a moment ago. I'll swear they've only just come on duty—I couldn't have missed them when I was loading up the car. But they've seen too much. Much too much.'

Conway went to the window and looked out.

Presently:

'I don't see anyone suspicious.'

'That's your innocent and guileless mind, my pet,' said the Saint, coming over to join him. 'If you were as old in sin as I am, you'd . . . Well, I'll be b-b-blowed!'

Conway regarded him gravely.

'It's the beer,' he said. 'Never mind. You'll feel better in a minute.'

'Damned if I will!' crisped the Saint.

He slammed his tankard down on the window-sill, and caught Roger by both shoulders.