The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

cat, keeping close to the wall, where he would be least likely to make a loose board creak. In that way he came down to the second floor, and there the choice of four doors was open to him. He selected one at random, turned the knob silently, and entered with a rush that was swift and sud­den without being noisy.

There was no one there. He saw that in his first light­ning glance round. Then, reassured upon that point, his interest was taken by the sight of the open cupboard that seemed to lead through to a lighted flight of stairs.

This was not quite what he had expected—he had not credited Donnell with the provision of any such melodramatic devices as concealed doors and secret passages. And the look of things seemed to indicate that someone had recently passed that way in a hurry—and in such a hurry that he had forgotten to disguise his retreat by closing the cupboard doors behind him.

The Saint went quickly through to the hidden stairway, his gun in his hand. '

He listened there and heard nothing. And then he went down into the darkness, and came at length upon the tun­nel which Weald had found.

He could see no one ahead, and his steps quickened. Presently he came to the fork at which Weald had hesitated. As he paused there irresolute, his eye fell on some­thing that sparkled on the stone flags. He bent and picked it up. It was a small drop earring.

And he was putting it in his pocket when he heard a muffled cry come faintly down the branch on his right. The Saint broke into a run.

Stephen Weald, with his back to the door, and so intent upon the object of his madness that he could notice noth­ing else, did not hear the Saint's entrance; and, indeed, he knew nothing whatever of the Saint's arrival until two steely hands took him by the scruff of the neck and liter­ally bounced him off his feet.

Then he turned and saw the Saint, and his right hand dived for his pocket. But Simon was much too quick. His fist crashed up under Weald's jaw and dropped him in his tracks.

He turned to find the girl beside him. 'Did you hear what he said—that he was Waldstein?' The Saint nodded.

'I did,' he said, and bent and seized Weald by the collar and jerked him half upright. Then he got his arms under the man's limp body and hoisted him up in a lump, as he might have picked up a child. 'Where are you going?'

The girl's voice checked him on his way to the door, and Simon glanced back over his shoulder.

'I'm going to collect Donnell and fill the party,' he said. 'We policemen have our jobs to hold down. D'you mind?'

Then he went on his way. He seemed totally unconscious of having performed any personal service for the girl, and he utterly ignored the sequel to the situation into which a hackneyed convention might pardonably have lured any other man. That sublimely bland indiffer­ence would have been as good as a blow between the eyes to anyone but Jill Trelawney. He went on up the stairs carrying Weald. He heard the girl following behind him; but she did not speak, and Simon appeared to take no notice of her presence.

And thus he stepped through the open cupboard, and found Harry Donnell waiting for him on the other side of a Colt.

Simon stood quite still.

Then——

'It's all right, Donnell,' spoke the girl. 'I've got him covered.'

She was standing behind the Saint, so that Simon and his burden practically hid her. Donnell could not see the gun with which she was supposed to be covering the Saint, for her hand was behind Simon's back, but Donnell believed, and lowered his own gun.

The Saint felt only the gentle and significant pressure of the girl's open hand in the small of his back, and under­stood.

'Go on,' said Jill Trelawny.

Simon advanced obediently.