Commissioner from the left definitely is not.'
We find from the published record of the proceedings that he was overruled; and the epistle he had just quoted was final and conclusive proof of the fact.
'And that,' said the Saint, gazing at the formidable red lettering gloomily, 'is what I get for a lifetime of philanthropy and self-denial.'
'I suppose you'll have to pay,' said Patricia.
'Someone will,' said the Saint significantly.
He propped the printed buff envelope that had accompanied the Final Demand against the coffee-pot, and his eyes rested on it for a space with a gentle thoughtfulness—amazingly clear, devil-may-care blue eyes with a growing glimmer of mischief lurking somewhere behind the lazily drooping lids.
And slowly the old Saintly smile came to his lips as he contemplated the address.
And suddenly the Saint stood up, with his swift soft laugh, and took the Final Demand and the envelope over to the fireplace. On the wall close by hung a plain block calendar, and on the mantelpiece lay an old Corsican stiletto.
The Saint rapidly flicked over the pages of the calendar and tore out the sheet which showed in solid red figures the day on which Mr. Lionel Delborn's patience would expire. He placed the sheet on top of the other papers, and with one quick thrust he drove the stiletto through the collection and speared it deep into the panelled overmantel.
'Lest we forget,' he said, and turned with another laugh to smile seraphically into Patricia's outraged face. 'I just wasn't born to be respectable, lass, and that's all there is to it. And the time has come for us to remember the old days.'
As a matter of fact, he had made that decision two full weeks before, and Patricia had known it; but not until then had he made his open declaration of war.
At eight o'clock that evening he was sallying forth in quest of an evening's innocent amusement, and a car that had been standing in the darkness at the end of the cul-de-sac of Upper Berkeley Mews suddenly switched on its headlights and roared towards him. The Saint leapt back and fell on his face in the doorway, and he heard the
He returned to brush his clothes, and then continued calmly on his way; and when he met Patricia later he did not think it necessary to mention the incident that had delayed him. But it was the third time since the episode
Chapter III
For some days past, the well-peeled eye might at intervals have observed a cadaverous and lantern-jawed individual protruding about six and a half feet upwards from the cobbled paving of Upper Berkeley Mews. Simon Templar, having that sort of eye, had in fact noticed the apparition on its first and in all its subsequent visits; and anyone less well-informed than himself might pardonably have suspected some connection between the lanky boulevardier and the recent disturbances of the peace. Simon Templar, however, was not deceived.
'That,' he said once, in answer to Patricia's question, 'is Mr. Harold Garrot, better known as Long Harry. He is a moderately proficient burglar; and we have met before, but not professionally. He is trying to make up his mind to come and tell me something, and one of these days he will take the plunge.'
The Saint's deductions were vindicated twenty-four hours after the last firework display.
Simon was alone. The continued political activities of a certain newspaper proprietor had driven him to verse, and he was covering a sheet of foolscap with the beginning of a minor epic expressing his own views on the subject:
