The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

while he was picking them up. And then, as he was walking through Lansdowne Passage, he hap­pened to look up and see you at one of the windows, so he brought them in. From the description he gave me it seemed as if it must have been you, sir——'

'Oh, it was certainly me.'

The Saint, who had never owned a pair of lemon-coloured gloves in his life, accepted the specimens gingerly, folded them, and slipped them into his pocket.

'Funny coincidence, sir, wasn't it?' said the porter chattily. 'Him happening to pass by, and you happening to be in the window at that time.'

'Quite remarkable,' agreed the Saint gravely, recalling the care he had taken to avoid all windows; and, turning back, he retired rapidly to a remote sanctuary.

There he unfolded the gloves in an empty washbasin, con­triving to work them cautiously inside out with his fountain pen in one hand and his propelling pencil in the other.

He had not the vaguest idea what kind of creeping West African frightfulness might be waiting for him in those citron-hued misdemeanours, but he was certainly a trifle surprised when he saw what fell out of the first glove that he tackled.

It was simply a thin splinter of wood, painted at both ends, and stained with some dark stain.

For a moment or two he looked at it expressionlessly.

Then he picked it up between two matches and stowed it carefully in his cigarette-case.

He turned his attention to the second glove, and extracted from it a soiled scrap of paper. He read:

If you will come to 85, Vandermeer Avenue, Hampstead, at midnight tonight, we may be able to reach some mutually satisfactory agreement. Otherwise, I fear that the consequences of your interference may be infinitely regrettable.

K.

Simon Templar held the message at arm's length, well up to the light, and gazed at it wall-eyed.

'And whales do so lay eggs,' he articulated at last, when he could find a voice sufficiently impregnated with emotion.

And then he laughed and went back to Patricia.

'If Monday's Child comes home, you shall have a new hat,' he said, and the girl smiled.

'What else happens before that?' she asked.

'We go on a little tour,' said the Saint.

They left the club together, and boarded a taxi that had just been paid off at the door.

'Piccadilly Hotel,' said the Saint.

He settled back, lighting a cigarette.

'I shook off Teal's man by Method One,' he explained. 'You are now going to see a demonstration of Method Two. If you can go on studying under my supervision, all the shad­owers you will ever meet will mean nothing to you. . . . The present performance may be a waste of energy'—he glanced back through the rear window—'or it may not. But the wise man is permanently suspicious.'

They reached the Piccadilly entrance of the hotel in a few minutes, and the Saint opened the door. The exact fare, plus bonus, was ready in the Saint's hand, and he dropped it in the driver's palm and followed Patricia across the pavement—with­out any appearance of haste, but very briskly. As he reached the doors, he saw in one glass panel the reflection of another taxi pulling in to the kerb behind him.

'This way.'

He steered the girl swiftly through the main hall, swung her through a short passage, across another hall, and up  some steps, and brought her out through another door into Regent Street. A break in the traffic let them straight through to the taxi rank in the middle of the road.

'Berkeley Hotel,' said the Saint.

He lounged deep in his corner and grinned at her.

'Method Two is not for use on a trained sleuth who knows you know he's after you,' he murmured. 'Other times, it's the whelk's