The Saint Closes the Case

brooked no denial. He stood there, in that homely room, like a king of men. And yet, when he continued, his voice was even milder and more reasonable than ever.

'Professor Vargan,' he said, 'I haven't brought you here to insult you for my amusement. I ask you to try for the moment to forget the circumstances and listen to me as an ordinary man speaking to an ordinary man. You have perfected the most horrible invention with which science has yet hoped to torture a world already sickened with the beastliness of scien­tific warfare. You intend to make that invention over to hands that would not hesitate to use it. Can you justify that?'

'Science needs no justification.'

'In France, to-day, there are millions of men buried who might have been alive now. They were killed in a war. If that war had been fought before science applied itself to the per­fection of slaughter, they would have been only thousands in­stead of millions. And, at least, they would have died like men. Does science need no justification for the squandering of those lives?'

'Do you think you can stop war?'

'No. I know I can't. That's not the argument. Listen again. In England to-day there are thousands of men blind, maimed, crippled for life, who might have been whole now. There are as many again in France, Belgium, Germany, Austria. The bodies that God gave, and made wonderful and intricate and beautiful—torn and wrecked by your science, often made so hideous that men shudder to see them. . . . Does science need no justification for that?'

'That is not my business.'

'You're making it your business.'

The Saint paused for a moment: and then he went on in a voice that no one could have interrupted, the passionate voice of a prophet crying in the wilderness.

'There is science that is good and science that is evil. Yours is the evil science, and all the blessings that good science has given to mankind are no justification for your evil. If we must have science, let it be good science. Let it be a science in which men can still be men, even when they kill and are killed. If there must be war, let it be holy war. Let men fight with the weapons of men, and not with the weapons of fiends. Let us have men to fight and die as champions and heroes, as men used to die, and not as the beasts that perish, as men have to die in our wars now.'

'You are an absurd idealist——'

'I am an absurd idealist. But I believe that all that must come true. For, unless it comes true, the world will be laid desolate. And I believe that it can come true. I believe that, by the grace of God, men will awake presently and be men again, and colour and laughter and splendid living will return to a grey civilisation. But that will only come true because a few men will believe in it, and fight for it, and fight in its name I against everything that sneers and snarls at that ideal. You are such a thing.'

'And you are the last hero—fighting against me?'

Simon shook his head.

'Not the last hero,' he said simply. 'Perhaps not a hero at all. I call myself a soldier of life. I have sinned as much as any man, and more than most. I have been a hunted criminal. I am that now. But everything I've done has been done for the glory of an invisible ideal. I never understood it very clearly before, but I understand it now. But you. . . . Why haven't you even told me that you want to do what you want to do for the glory of your own ideal—for the glory, if you like, of England?'

A fantastic obstinacy flared in Vargan's eyes.

'Because it wouldn't be true,' he said. 'Science is inter­national. Honour among scientists is international. I've of­fered my invention first to England—that's all. If they're fools enough to refuse to reward me for it, I shall find a country that will.'

He came closer to the Saint, with his head sideways, his faded lips curiously twisted. And the Saint saw that he had wasted all his words.

'For years I've worked and slaved,' babbled Vargan. 'Years! And what have I got for it? A few paltry letters to put after my name. No honour for everybody to see. No money. I'm poor! I've starved myself, lived like a pauper, to save money to carry on my work! Now you ask me to give up everything that I've sacrificed the best years of my life to win—to gratify your Sunday-school sentimentality! I say you're a fool, sir —an imbecile!'

The Saint stood quite still, with Vargan's bony hands claw­ing the air a few inches from his face. His impassivity seemed to infuriate the professor.

'You're in league with them!' screamed Vargan. 'I knew it. You're in league with the devils who've tried to keep me down! But I don't care! I'm not afraid of you. You can do your worst. I don't care if millions of people die. I hope you die with them! If I could kill you——'

Suddenly he flung himself at the Saint like a mad beast, blub­bering incoherently, tearing, kicking. ...

Orace caught him about the middle and swung him off his feet in arms of iron; and the Saint leaned against the table, rubbing a shin that he had not been quick enough to get out of the way of that maniacal onslaught.

'Lock him up again,' said Simon heavily, and saw Orace depart with his raving burden.

He had just finished with the telephone when Orace re­turned.

'Get everybody's things together,' he ordered. 'Your own included. I've phoned for a van to take them to the station. They'll go as luggage in advance to Mr. Tremayne, in Paris. I'll write out the labels. The van will be here at four, so you'll have to move.'

'Yessir,' said Orace obediently.

The Saint grinned.

'We've been a good partnership, haven't we?' he said. 'And now I'm clearing out of England with a price on my head. I'm sorry we've got to ... break up the alliance. . . .'

Orace snorted.

'Ya bin arskin forrit, aintcha?' he demanded unsympathetically. 'Ain't I tolja so arfadozen times? . . . Where ya goin' ta?' he added, in the same ferocious tone.

'Lord knows,' said the Saint.

'Never bin there,' said Orace. 'Allus wanted ta, but never adno invitashun. I'll be ready ta leave when you are, sir.'

He turned smartly on his heel and marched to the door. Simon had to call him back.

'Shake, you darned old fool,' said the Saint, and held out his hand. 'If you think it's worth it——'

' Tain't,' said Orace sourly. 'But I'll avta look arfter ya.'

Then Orace was gone; and the Saint lighted a cigarette and sat down by the open window, gazing dreamily out over the lawn and the sunlit river.

And it seemed to him that he saw a cloud like a violet mist unrolled over the lawn and the river and the white houses and the fields behind, a gigantic cloud that crept over the country like a living thing; and the cloud scintillated as with the whirling and flashing of a thousand thousand sparks of violet fire. And the grass shrivelled in the searing breath of the cloud; and the trees turned black and crumpled in hot cinders as the cloud engulfed them. And men ran before the cloud, men agonised for breath, men with white, haggard faces and eyes glazed and staring, men . . . But the creeping of the cloud was faster than the swiftest man could run. . . .

And Simon remembered the frenzy of Vargan.

For the space of two cigarettes he sat there with his own thoughts; and then he sat down and wrote a letter.

TO CHIEF INSPECTOR TEAL,

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT,

NEW SCOTLAND YARD,

LONDON, S.W. 1.

DEAR OLD CLAUD EUSTACE,

Before anything else, I want to apologise for assaulting you and one of your men at Esher on Saturday, and also to apologise for the way a friend of mine treated you yesterday. Unfortunately, on both occasions, the circumstances did not permit us to dispose of you by more peaceful means.

The story that Roger Conway told you last night was noth­ing but the truth. We rescued Professor Vargan from the men who first took him—who were led, as Conway told you, by the celebrated Dr. Rayt Marius—and removed him to a place of safety. By the time you