The Saint Closes the Case

receive this, you will know our reason; and, since I have not the time to circularise the Press myself, I hope this explanation will be safe in your hands.

Little remains for me to add to what you already know.

We have tried to appeal to Vargan to suppress his invention on humanitarian grounds. He will not listen. His sole thought is the recognition which he thinks his scientific genius de­serves. One cannot argue with monomaniacs: therefore, we find ourselves with only one course open to us. . We believe that for this diabolical discovery to take its place in the armament of the nations of Europe, at a time when jealousies and fears and the rumours of wars are again lifting their heads, would be a refinement of 'civilisation' which the world could well be spared. You may say that the exclusive possession of this invention would confirm Great Britain in an unassailable supremacy, and perhaps thereby secure the peace of Europe. We answer that no secret can be kept for ever. The sword is two-edged. And, as Vargan an­swered me by saying, 'Science is international'— so I an­swer you by saying that humanity is also international.

We are content to be judged by the verdict of history, when all the facts are made known.

But in accomplishing what we have accomplished, we have put you in the way of learning our identities; and that, as you will see, must be an almost fatal blow to such an organisation as mine.

   Nevertheless, I believe that in time I shall find a way for us to continue the work that we have set ourselves to do.

We regret nothing that we have already done. Our only regret is that we should be scattered before we have time to do more. Yet we believe that we have done much good, and that this last crime of ours is the best of all.

Au revoir!

SIMON TEMPLAR

('The Saint').

He had heard, while he wrote, the sounds of Orace despatch­ing luggage; and, as he signed his name, Orace entered with a tray of tea and the report that the van had departed.

Patricia came in through the French windows a moment later. He thought she could never have looked so slim and cool and lovely. And, as she came to him, he swung her up in one arm as if she had been a feather.

'You see,' he smiled, as he set her down, 'I'm not quite a back number yet.'

She stayed close to him, with cool golden-brown arms linked round his neck, and he was surprised that she smiled so slowly.

'Oh, Simon,' she said, 'I do love you so much!'

'Darling,' said the Saint, 'this is so sudden! If I'd only known. . ., .'

But something told him that it was not a time for jesting, and he stopped.

But of course she loved him. Hadn't he known it for a whole heavenly year, ever since she confessed it on the tor above Baycombe—that peaceful Devonshire village—only a week after he'd breezed into the district as a smiling swashbuckler in search of trouble, without the least notion that he was waltzing into a kind of trouble to which he had always been singularly immune? Hadn't she proved it, since, in a hundred ways? Hadn't the very night before, at Bures, been enough in itself to prove the fact beyond question for all time?

And now, in the name of fortune and all the mysteries of women, she had to blurt it out of the blue like that, almost as if ... 'Burn it!' thought the Saint. 'Almost as if she thought I was going to leave her!'

'Darling old idiot,' said the Saint, 'what's the matter?'

Roger Conway answered, from the Saint's shoulder, having entered the room unnoticed. He answered with a question.

'You've seen Vargan?'

'I have.'

Roger nodded.

'We heard some of the noise. What did he say?'

'He went mad, and gibbered. Orace rescued me, and car­ried him away—fighting like a wild cat. Vargan's a lunatic, as Norman said. And a lunatic said . . . 'No.' '

Conway went to the window and looked up the river, shad­ing his eyes against the sun. Then he turned back.

'Teal's on his way,' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. 'For the last half-hour the same energetic bird has been scuttling up and down the river in a motorboat. We spotted him through the kitchen window, while we were drinking beer and wait­ing for you.'

'Well, well, well!' drawled the Saint, very gently and thoughtfully.

'He was snooping all round with a pair of binoculars. Pat being out on the lawn may have put him off for a bit. I left Norman on the lookout, and sent Orace out for Pat as soon as we heard you were through.'

Norman Kent came in at that moment, and Simon took his arm and drew him into the group.

'Our agile brain,' said the Saint, 'deduces that Hermann has squealed, but has forgotten the actual number of our telephone. So Teal has to investigate Maidenhead generally. That may yet give us another hour or two; but it doesn't alter the fact that we have our marching orders. They're easy. Your luggage has already gone. So, if you beetle off to your rooms and have a final wash and brush-up, we'll be ready to slide. Push on, souls!'

He left them to it, and went to the kitchen in search of Orace.

'Got your bag packed, Orace?'

'Yessir.'

'Passport in order?'

'Yessir.'

'Fine. I'd like to take you in the Desoutter, but I'm afraid there isn't room. However, the police aren't after you, so you won't have any trouble.'

'Nossir.'

The Saint took five ten-pound notes from a bulging wallet

'There's a train to London at 4.58,' he said. 'Paddington, 5.40. That'll give you time to say good-bye to all your aunts, and catch a train from Victoria at 8.20, which will take you via Newhaven and Dieppe to Paris, where you arrive at 5.23 to-morrow morning at the Gare St. Lazare. While you're wait­ing in London, you'd better tear yourself away from your aunts for as long as it takes you to send a wire to Mr. Tre­mayne and ask him to meet you at the station and protect you from all those wild French ladies you've read about. We'll meet you at Mr. Tremayne's. . . . Oh, and you might post this letter for me.'

'Yessir.'

'O.K., Orace. You've just got time to get to the station with­out bursting a bloodvessel. S'long!'

He went on to his room, and there he found Patricia.

Simon took her in his arms at once.

'You're coming on this getaway?' he asked.

She held tightly to him.

'That's what I was wondering when I came in from the garden,' she said. 'You've always been such a dear old quixotic ass, Simon. You know how it was at Baycombe.'

'And you thought I'd want to send you away.'

'Do you?'

'I should have wanted to once,' said the Saint. 'In the bad old days. . . . But now—oh, Pat, dear lass, I love you too much to be unselfish! I love your eyes and your lips and your voice and the way your hair shines like gold in the sun. I love your wisdom and your understanding and your kindli­ness and your courage and your laughter. I love you with every thought of my mind and every minute of my life. I love you so much that it hurts. I couldn't face losing you. Without you, I just shouldn't have anything to live for. . . . And I don't know where we shall go or what we shall do or what we shall find in the days that are coming. But I do know that if I never find more than I've got already—just you, lass!——I shall have had more than my life. ...'

'I shall have had more than mine, Simon. . . . God bless you!'

He laughed.

'He has,' said the Saint. 'You see how it is. ... And I know a gentleman would be strong and silent, and send