The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

be a bee in anybody's bonnet what was up against him. See?'

If there had been a light, he would have been seen to be blushing. Mr. Budd always blushed when anyone spoke to him sharply. It was this weakness that had given him the nickname of 'Pinky.'

'There's  a story——'  ventured the man in evening dress; but he got no further.

'Isn't there always a story about any fancy dick?' de­manded the girl scornfully. 'I suppose you've never heard a story about Henderson—or Peters—or Teal—or Bill Kennedy? Who is this man Templar, anyway?'

'Ever seen a man pick up another man fifty pounds above his weight 'n' heave him over a six-foot wall like he was a sack of feathers?' asked Mr. Budd, in his diffident way. 'Templar does that as a kind of warming-up exercise for a real fight. Ever seen a man stick a visiting card up edgeways 'n' cut it in half with a knife at fifteen paces? Templar does that standing on his head with his eyes shut. Ever seen a man take all the punishment six hoodlums can hand out to him 'n' come back smiling to qualify the whole half-dozen for an ambulance ride? Templar——'

'Frightened of him, Pinky?' inquired the girl quietly.

Mr. Budd sniffed.

'I been sparring partner—which is the same as saying human punchbag—to some of the best heavyweights what ever stepped into a ring,' he answered, 'but I always been paid handsome for the hidings I've took. I don't expect the Saint 'ud be ready to pay so much for the pleasure of beating me up. See?'

Mr. Budd did not add that since his sparring-partner days he had seen service in Chicago with 'Blinder' Kellory and other gang leaders almost as notorious—men who shot on sight and asked questions at the inquest. He had acquitted himself with distinction in Kellory's 'war' with 'Scarface' Al Capone—and he said nothing about that, either. There was a peculiarly impressive quality about his reticence.

'Nobody's gonna say I'm frightened to fight anybody,' said Mr. Budd pinkly, 'but that don't stop me knowing when I'm gonna be licked. See?'

'If you take my advice, Jill,' yapped the man in evening dress, 'you'll settle with Templar before he gets the chance to do any mischief. It ought to be easy——'

The man in the shadows shook with a chuckle of pure amusement. It was a warm evening, and all the windows of the car were open. He could hear every word that was said. He was standing so near the car that he could have taken a pace forward, reached out a hand, and touched it. But he took two paces forward.

The girl said, with cool contempt, as though she were dealing with a sulky child: 'If it'll make you feel any happier to have him fixed——'

'It would,' said Stephen Weald shamelessly. 'I know there are always stories, but the stories I've heard about the Saint don't make me happy. He's uncanny. They say——'

The words were strangled in his throat in a kind of sob, so that the other two looked at him quickly, though they could not have made out his face in the gloom. But the girl saw, in an instant, what Weald had seen—the deeper shadow that had blacked out the grey square of one window.

Then there was something else in the car, something living, besides themselves. It was strangely eerie, that transient certainty that something had moved in the car that belonged to none of them. But it was only an arm—a swift sure arm that reached through one open window with a crisp rustle of tweed sleeve which they all heard clearly in the silence—and a hand that found a switch and flooded them with light from the panel bulb over their heads.

'What do they say, Weald?' drawled a voice.

There was a curious tang about that voice. It struck all of them before they had blinked the darkness out of their eyes sufficiently to make out its owner, who now had his head and shoulders inside the car, leaning on his forearms in the window. It was