The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

ghost of a quickening of interest in his perpetually weary voice.

The Saint picked up a sheet of paper.

'Listen,' he said.

'His faith was true: though once misled

By an appeal that he had read

To honour with his patronage

Crusades for better Auction Bridge

He was not long deceived; he found

No other paladins around

Prepared to perish, sword in hand,

While storming in one reckless band

Those strongholds of Beelzebub

The portals of the Portland Club.

His chance came later; one fine day

Another paper blew his way:

Charles wrote; Charles had an interview;

And Charles, an uncrowned jousting Blue,

Still spellbound by the word Crusade,

Espoused the cause of Empire Trade.'

'What on earth's that?' demanded the startled detective.

'A little masterpiece of mine,' said the Saint modestly. 'There's rather an uncertain rhyme in it, if you noticed. Do you think the Poet Laureate would pass patronge and Bridge? I'd like your opinion.'

Teal's eyelids lowered again.

'Have you stopped talking?' he sighed.

'Very nearly, Teal,' said the Saint, putting the paper down again. 'In case that miracle of tact was too subtle for you, let me explain that I was changing the subject.'

'I see.'

'Do you?'

Teal glanced at the automatic on the table and then again at the papers on the wall, and sighed a second time.

'I think so. You're going to ask the Scorpion to pay your income tax.'

'I am.'

'How?'

The Saint laughed. He pointed to the desecrated over­mantel.

'One thousand three hundred and thirty-seven pounds, nine­teen and fivepence,' he said. 'That's my sentence for being a useful wage-earning citizen instead of a prolific parasite, ac­cording to the laws of this spavined country. Am I supposed to pay you and do your work as well? If so, I shall emigrate on the next boat and become a naturalised Venezuelan.'

'I wish you would,' said Teal, from his heart.

He picked up his hat.

'Do you know the Scorpion?' he asked suddenly.

Simon shook his head.

'Not yet. But I'm going to. His donation is not yet assessed, but I can tell you where one thousand three hundred and thirty-eight pounds of it are going to travel. And that is to­wards the offices of Mr. Lionel Delborn, collector of extortions —may his teeth fall out and his legs putrefy! I'll stand the odd sevenpence out of my own pocket.'

'And what do you think you're going to do with the man himself?'

The Saint smiled.

'That's a little difficult to say,' he murmured. 'Accidents sort of—er—happen, don't they? I mean, I don't want you to start getting back any of your naughty old ideas about me, but——'