The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

your onion. . . . Which was half-witted, if you come to think of it, because if we'd kept him we could have made him squeal. But who am I to spoil sport.'

'I know.'

'But we go on with the good work, so why worry?'

She nodded slowly.

'Yes, we go on. Maybe it won't be long now.'

'And that boy of yours?'

'He thinks I'm travelling around improving my mind.' She laughed. 'I suppose I am, if you look at it that way. . . .'

And there was a silence.

And in that simple silence began an understanding that needed no explanations. For the Saint always knew exactly what to leave unsaid. . . . And when, presently, he reached out a long arm to crush his last cigarette into an ashtray, glanced at the clock, and stood up, the move­ment fitted spontaneously into the comfortable quiet which had settled down upon the evening.

'Do you realize,' he said easily, 'that's it's nearly mid­night, and we've had a busy day?'

Her smile thanked him, and he remembered it after she had left the room and he sat by the fire smoking a final cigarette and meditating the events of the last twen­ty-four hours.

Adventures to the adventurous. Simon Templar called himself an adventurer. What other people called him is nobody's business. Certainly he had had what he want­ed, in more ways than one, and the standard of enterprise and achievement which he had set himself from the very beginning of his career showed no signs of slacking off. It was only recently that he had started to realize that there was more for him to do in life than he had ever known. . . . And yet, just then, he was quite contented. Simon Templar's philosophical outlook on life was his strong suit. It kept him young. As long as something interesting was happening he was quite happy. He was quite happy that night.

For complete contentment he required well-balanced alternations of excitement and peaceful self-satisfaction. At the beginning of his cigarette he was enjoying the peaceful self-satisfaction. Halfway through the ciga­rette, the front door bell rang curtly and crisply, and the Saint came slowly to his feet with a speculative little frown.

He was not expecting to receive callers at that address, apart from tradesmen, because it had never been registered in his own name. And in any case, when he came back to London this time there had been no notices in the newspapers to say that Mr. Simon Templar had re­turned to town and would be delighted to hear from any friends and/or acquaintances who cared to look him up. For obvious reasons. The Saint had never been notorious for hiding his light under any unnecessary bushels, but he always knew precisely when to remain discreetly in the background. He had learnt the art in his cradle, and this was one of the periods when he applied it energetical­ly. It was therefore a practical certainty that the visitor would be unwelcome; but Simon opened the door with a bland smile, for he was always interested to meet any trouble that happened to be coming his way.

'Why, if it isn't Claud Eustace!' he exclaimed, and stood aside to allow the caller to enter.

'Yes, it's me,' said Mr. Teal heavily.

He came in, and oozed through the miniature hall into the sitting room. Simon Templar followed him in.

'What can I do for you? Do you want a tip for the Two Thousand, or have you come to borrow money?'

Inspector Teal carefully unwrapped a wafer of chew­ing gum and posted -it in his red face.

'Saint,' said Teal drowsily, 'I hear you've been a naughty