The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

a gang,' said Cullis. 'Trelawney and Weald and Pinky Budd were the only Angels of Doom. Three people can't be called a gang.'

'There were others——'

'To do the dirty work. But they weren't anything.'

Essenden drummed his finger tips on the desk in an irritating tattoo.

'You know what I mean,' he repeated. 'Jill Trelaw­ney's back, then—if you like that better. And so is the Saint.'

'Where?'

'I came back from Paris yesterday——'

'And I went to Brixton last night,' said Cullis annoy­ingly. 'We do travel about, don't we? But what's that got to do with it?'

'The Saint was in Paris—and Trelawney was with him.'

'That's better. You actually saw them?'

'Not exactly—'

Cullis bit the end off a cigar with appalling restraint.

'Either you saw her or you didn't,' he said. 'Or do you mean you were drunk?'

'I'd had a few drinks,' Essenden admitted. 'Fellow I met in the bar. He must have been the Saint—I can see it all now. I'm certain I drank more than whisky. Any­way, I can only remember getting back to my room, and then—I simply passed out. The next thing I knew was that the valet was bringing in my breakfast, and I was lying on the bed fully dressed. I don't know what the man must have thought.'

'I do,' said Cullis.

'Anyhow,' said Essenden, 'they'd taken a couple of hundred thousand francs off me—and a notebook and wallet as well, which were far more important.'

Cullis sat up abruptly.

'What's that mean?' he demanded.

'It was all written up in code, of course——'

'What was written up in code?'

'Some accounts—and some addresses. Nothing to do with anything in England, though.'

The assistant commissioner leaned back again.

'Someone's certainly interested in you,' he remarked.

'I've told you that before,' said Essenden peevishly. 'But you never do anything about it.'

'I've offered you police protection.'

'I've had police protection, and one of your men was on guard outside my house the night I found a man breaking open my desk. That's all your police protection is worth!'

Cullis tugged at his moustache.

'Still,' he said, 'there's nothing to connect the Saint with that burglary, any more than there's anything to connect either him or Trelawney with your—er—accident in Paris.'