The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

those two days the Saint held no conversation with Lord Essenden beyond once begging his pardon for treading on his toes in the lift.

It was during the forty-ninth hour of their residence at the Crillon that Simon learnt that Essenden was leaving by the early train next morning.

His room was on the same floor as Essenden's. He re­tired to it when Essenden retired, bidding the peer an affa­ble good-night in the corridor, for that night the Saint had met Essenden in the bar and relaxed his aloofness. In fact, they had drunk whisky together. This without any reference to their previous encounter. On that occa­sion the Saint had been masked; and now, meeting Es­senden in more propitious circumstances, he had no wish to rake up a stale quarrel.

So they drank whisky together, which was a dangerous thing for anyone to do with Simon Templar; and retired at the same hour. Simon undressed, put on pajamas and a dressing gown, gave Essenden an hour and a half in which to feel the full and final benefit of the whisky. Then he sauntered down the corridor to Essenden's room, knocked, received no answer, sauntered in, and found the peer sleeping peacefully. Essenden had not even troubled to undress. The Saint regarded him sadly, covered him tenderly with the quilt, and went out again some minutes later, closing the door behind him.

And that was really all that happened on that trip to Paris which is of importance for the purposes of this chronicle; for, on the next day Lord Essenden duly went back to London, and he went with a tale of woe that took him straight to an old acquaintance.

Mr. Assistant Commissioner Cullis, of Scotland Yard, disliked having to interview casual callers. Whenever it was possible he evaded the job. To secure an appointment to see him was, to a private individual, a virtual impossi­bility. Cullis would decide that the affair in question was either so unimportant that it could be adequately dealt with by a subordinate, or so important that it could only be adequately coped with by the chief commissioner, for he was by nature a retiring man. In this retirement he was helped by his rank; in the days when he had been a more humble superintendent, it had not been so easy to avoid personal contact with the general public.

To this rule, however, there were certain exceptions, of which Lord Essenden was one.

Lord Essenden could obtain audience with Mr. Assist­ant Commissioner Cullis at almost any hour; for Essenden was an important man, and had occupied a seat on more than one royal commission. Indeed, it was largely due to Essenden that Mr. Cullis held his present appoint­ment. Essenden could not be denied. And so, when Essen­den came to Scotland Yard that evening demanding converse with Mr. Cullis, on a day when Mr. Cullis was feeling more than usually unfriendly towards the whole wide world, he was received at once, when a prime min­ister might have been turned away unsatisfied.

He came in, a fussy little man with a melancholy mous­tache, and said, without preface: 'Cullis, the Angels of Doom are back.'

He had spoken before he saw Teal, who was also pres­ent, stolidly macerating chicle beside the commissioner's desk.

'What Angels of Doom?' asked Cullis sourly.

Essenden frowned.

'Who is this gentleman, Cullis?' he inquired. He ap­peared to hesitate over the word 'gentleman.'

'Chief Inspector Teal, who has taken charge of the case.'

Cullis performed the necessary introduction briefly, and Essenden fidgeted into a chair without offering to shake hands.

'What angels of what doom?' repeated Cullis.

'Don't be difficult,' said Essenden pettishly. 'You know what I mean. Jill Trelawney's gang ——'

'There never has been