The Saint Closes the Case

Westminster Abbey before he realised that no service could be proceeding there at that hour.

'To give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death: and to guide our feet into the way of peace. . . .'

And, as Norman Kent turned his eyes, they fell upon the great statue of Richard Coeur-de-Lion, which stands outside the House. And all at once the voices died away. But Norman still looked back, and saw Richard Coeur-de- Lion riding there, the last of his breed, huge and heroic against the pale dawn sky, with his right hand and arm hurling up his great sword in a gesture. And for some reason Norman Kent suddenly felt himself utterly alone and aloof, and very cold. But that might have been the chill of the dawn.

15. How Vargan gave his answer, and Simon Templar wrote a letter

It was full daylight when they came to Maidenhead.

Orace was not in bed. Orace was never in bed when he could be useful, no matter at what unearthly hour that might be. But whether it was because he never went to bed at all, or whether it was because some strange clairvoyance always roused him in time to be ready for all emergencies, was his own mysterious secret.

He produced a great dish of sizzling bacon and eggs and a steaming pot of coffee as if by the waving of a magic wand.

Then the Saint gave orders.

'We will sleep till lunch-time,' he said. 'The difference it'll make to our strength will be worth the waste of time.'

He himself was feeling ready to drop.

He took Orace with him to his room, and swore him to silence before he allowed him to see the wound. But Orace, seeing it, said: 'Wot the thunderinell——'

Simon fluttered a tired hand.

'Don't swear, Orace,' he rambled vaguely. 'I didn't swear when it happened. And Miss Patricia doesn't know yet. . . . You'll look after Miss Patricia and the boys, Orace, if I conk out. Keep them out of mischief and so forth. . . . And if you see Angel Face, you'll shoot him through the middle of his ugly mug, with my compliments, Orace. . . .'

He slid sideways off the chair suddenly, but Orace's strong arms caught him as he fell.

Orace put him to bed as tenderly as if he had been a child.

And yet, next morning, the Saint was up and dressed before any of the others. He was rather pale under his tan, and his lean face seemed leaner than ever; but there was still a spring in his step. He had slept like a healthy schoolboy. His head was as clear as his eyes, and a cold shower had sent fresh life tingling through his veins.

'Learn a lesson from me,' he said over his third egg. 'If you had constitutions like mine, invigorated by my spiritual purity, and unimpaired, like mine, by the dissipation and riotous living that has brought you to the wrecks you are——'

And in this he was joking less than they thought. Sheer ruth­less will-power had forced his splendid physique on to the road of an almost miraculously swift recovery. Simon Templar had no time to waste on picturesque convalescences.

He sent Orace out for newspapers, and read them all. Far too much that should have been said was still left unsaid. But he could glean a hint here, a warning there, a confirmation everywhere; until at the end of it he seemed to see Europe ly­ing under the shadow of a dreadful darkness. But nothing was said in so many words. There were only the infuriating in­adequate clues for a suspicious man to interpret according to his suspicions. It seemed as if the face of the shadow was waiting for something to happen, before which it would not unveil itself. The Saint knew what that something was, and doubted himself for the first time since he had gathered his friends together under him to serve the ends of a quixotic ideal.

But still nothing whatever was said in the newspapers about the affair at Esher; and the Saint knew that this silence could only mean one thing.

It was not until three o'clock that he had a chance to discuss Vargan again with Roger and Norman; for it had been agreed that, although Patricia had to know that Vargan was a prisoner, and why he was a prisoner, and although his possible fate had once been mentioned before her, the question should not be raised again in her presence.

'We can't keep him for ever,' said Simon, when the chance came. 'For one thing, we look like spending a large part of the rest of our lives on the run, and you can't run well with a load of unwilling luggage. Of course, we might get away with it if we found some lonely place and decided to live like hermits for the rest of our days. But, either way, there'd still always be the risk that he might escape. And that doesn't amuse me in the least.'

'I spoke to Vargan last night,' said Norman Kent soberly. 'I think he's mad. A megalomaniac. His one idea is that his invention will bring him worldwide fame. His grievance against us is that we're holding up his negotiations with the Government, and thereby postponing the front-page head­lines. I remember he told me he was naming a peerage as part of the price of his secret.'

The Saint recalled his lunch with Barney Malone, of the Clarion, and the conversation which had reinforced his in­terest in Vargan, and found Norman's analysis easy to accept.

'I'll speak to him myself,' he said.

He did so shortly afterwards.

The afternoon had grown hot and sunny, and it was easy to arrange that Patricia should spend it on the lawn with a book.

'Give your celebrated impersonation of innocent English girlhood, old dear,' said the Saint. 'At this time of year, and in this weather, anyone searching Maidenhead for a suspici­ous-looking house, and seeing one not being used in the way that houses at Maidenhead are usually used, will be after it like a cat after kippers. And now you're the only one of us who's in balk—bar Orace. So you'll just have to give the local colour all by yourself. And keep your eyes skinned. Look out for a fat man chewing gum. We're shooting all fat men who chew gum on sight, just to make sure we don't miss Claud Eustace. . . .'

When she had gone, he sent Roger and Norman away also. To have had the other two present would have made the affair too like a kangaroo court for his mood.

There was only one witness of that interview: Orace, a stolid and expressionless sentinel, who stood woodenly beside the prisoner like a sergeant-major presenting a defaulter to his orderly officer.

'Have a cigarette?' said the Saint.

He knew what his personality could do; and, left alone to use it, he still held to a straw of hope that he might succeed where Norman had failed.

But Vargan refused the cigarette. He was sullenly defiant.

'May I ask how much longer you propose to continue this farce?' he inquired. 'You have now kept me here three days. Why?'

'I think my friend has explained that to you,' said Simon.

'He's talked a lot of nonsense—-'.

Simon cut the speech short with a curt movement of his hand.

He was standing up, and the professor looked small and frail beside him. Tall and straight and lean was the Saint.

'I want to talk to you seriously,' he said. 'My friend has appealed to you once. I'm appealing to you now. And I'm afraid this is the last appeal we can make. I appeal to you in the name of whatever you hold most sacred. I appeal to you in the name of humanity. In the name of the peace of the world.'

Vargan glared at him short-sightedly.

'An impertinence,' he replied. 'I've already heard your proposition, and I may say that I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. And that's my answer.'

'Then,' said Simon quietly, 'I may say that I've never in my life heard anything so damnable as your attitude. Or can it be that you're merely a fool—an overgrown child playing with fire?'

'Sir——'

The Saint seemed to grow even taller. There was an arro­gance of command in his poise, in an instant, that