Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

Roger said nothing. He had nothing to say. And the big car roared out into the east.

The sun had long since set, and now the twilight was closing down with the suddenness of the season. As the dusk became dangerous for their speed, Simon touched a switch, and the tremendous twin headlights slashed a blazing pathway for them through the darkness.

They drove on in silence; and Roger Conway, strangely soothed by the swift rush of wind and the deep- chested drone of the open exhaust, sank into a hazy reverie. And he remembered a brown-eyed slip of a girl, sweet and fresh from her bath, in a jade-green   gown,   who   was   called   America's loveliest lady, and who had sat in a sunny room with him that morning and eaten bacon and eggs. Also he remembered the way she and the Saint had spoken together, and how far away and unattainable they had seemed in their communion, and how little the Saint would say afterwards. He was quiet. ...

And then, it seemed only a few minutes later, Simon was rousing him with a hand on his shoulder; and Roger struggled upright and saw that it was now quite dark, and the sky was brilliant with stars.

'Your cue, son,' said the Saint. 'The last signpost gave us three miles to Saltham. Where do we go from here?'

'Right on over the next crossroads, old boy . . . . ' Roger picked up his bearings mechanically. 'Carry on ... and bear left here. . . . Sharp right just beyond that gate, and left again almost immediately. ... I should watch this corner—it's a brute. . . . Now stand by to fork right in about half a mile, and the house is about another four hundred yards farther on.'

The Saint's foot groped across the floor and kicked over the cut-out control, and the thunder of their passage was suddenly hushed to a murmuring whisper that made figures on the speedometer seem grotesque. The Saint had never been prone to hide any of his lights under a bushel, and in the matter of racing automobiles particularly he had cyclonic tastes; but his saving quality was that of knowing precisely when and where to get off.

'We won't tell the world we're on our way till we've given the lie of the land a brisk double-O,' he remarked. 'Let's see—where does this comic chemin trail to after it's gone past the baronial hall?'

'It works round the grounds until it comes out onto the cliffs,' Roger answered. 'Then it runs along by the sea and dips down into the village nearly a mile away.'

'Any idea how big these grounds are?'

'Oh, large! . . . I could give you a better idea of the size if I knew how much space an acre takes up.'

'Parkland, or what?'

'Trees all around the edge and gardens around the house—as far as I could see. But part of it's park—you could play a couple of cricket matches on it. ... The gates are just round this bend on your right now.'

'O.K., big boy. ...'

The Saint eased up the accelerator and glanced at the gates as the Hirondel drifted past. They were tall and broad and massive, fashioned in wrought iron in an antique style; far beyond them, at the end of a long straight drive, he could see the silhouette of a gabled roof against the stars, with one tiny square of window alight in the black shadow. . . . Maybe Sonia Delmar was there. . . . And he looked the other way, and saw the grim line of Roger's mouth.

'Feeling a bit more set for the stampede, son?' he asked softly.

'I am.' Roger met his eyes steadily. 'And it might amuse you to know, Saint, that there isn't another living man I'd have allowed to make it a stampede. Even now, I don't quite see why Sonia had to go back.'

Simon touched the throttle again and they swept on.

'D'you think I'd have let Sonia take the risk for nothing myself?' he answered. 'I didn't know what I was going to get out of my trip to the Ritz. And even what I did get isn't the whole works. But Sonia—she's right in their camp, and they've no fear of her squealing. It would amuse them to boast to her, Roger—I can see them doing it.'

'That Russian they're bringing over—'

'Vassiloff?'

'That's it—'

'I rather think he'll boast more than any of them.'

'What's he getting out of it?'

'Power,' said the Saint quietly. 'That's what they're all playing for—or with. And Rayt Marius most of all, for the power of gold—Marius and the men behind him. But he's the mad dog. . . . Did you know that he was once a guttersnipe in the slums of Prague? . . . Wouldn't it be the greatest thing in his life to sit on the unnofficial throne of Europe—to play with kings and presidents for toys—to juggle with great nations as in the past he's juggled with little ones? That's his idea. That's why he's playing Vassiloff with one finger, because Vassiloff hates Lessing, and Prince Rudolf with another finger, because Rudolf fancies himself as a modern Napoleon—and, by the lord, Roger, Rudolf could make that fancy into fact, with Marius behind him! . . . And God knows how many other people are on his strings, here and there .... And Sonia's the pawn that's right inside their lines—that might become a queen in one move, and turn the scales of their tangled chessgame to hell or glory.'

'While we're—just dancing round the board......'

'Not exactly,' said the Saint.

They had swung out onto the cliff road, and Simon was braking the car to a gentle standstill. As the car stopped he pointed; and Roger, looking past him, saw two lights, red and green stealing over the sea.

4

'THERE'S the bleary old bateau. ...'

A ghost of merriment wraithed through the Saint's voice. Thus the approach of tangible peril always seized him, with a stirring of stupendous laughter, and a surge of pride in all gay, glamorous things. And he slipped out of the car and stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the lights and the reflection of the lights in the smooth sea, and then away to his right, where the shreds of other lights were tattered between the trees. 'Battle and sudden death,' went a song in his heart; and he smiled in the starlight, remem­bering another adventure and an old bravado. Then Roger was standing beside him. 'How long would you give it, Saint?'

'All the time in the world. Don't forget we're fifty feet above sea level, by your reckoning, and that alters the horizon. She's a good two miles out.'

Simon's head went back; he seemed to be listening.

'What is it?' queried Roger.

'Nothing. That's the problem. We didn't pass Marius on the road here, and he didn't pass us. Question: Did he get here first or is he still coming? Or isn't the prince likely to find my bathroom decoration till next Saturday? What would you say, Roger?'

'I should say they were here. You had to wait for a slow train, and then we wasted an hour in Saxmundham.'

'Not 'wasted,' sweetheart,' protested the Saint absently. 'We assimilated some ale.'

He heard an unmistakable metallic snap at his side, and glanced down at the blue-black sheen of an automatic in Roger's hand.

'We'll soon find out what's happened,' said Roger grimly.

'Gat all refuelled and straining at the clutch, old lad?'

'It is.'

Simon laughed softly, thoughtfully; and his hand fell on Conway's wrist.

'' Roger, I want you to go back to London.'

There was an instant's utter silence.

Then—

' You want—'

'I want you to go to London. And find Lessing. Get at him somehow—if you have to shoot up the whole West End. And fetch him along here—even at the end of that gun!'

'Saint, what's the big idea?'

'' I want him here—our one and only Ike.'

'But Sonia—'

'I'm staying, and that's what I'm staying for. You don't have to worry about her. And it's safer for you in London than it is for me. You've got to make record time on this trip.'