The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

to his figure were very startling. Up to the base of the neck he was not so thin—but oh, boy, from then on. ... It was awfully sad.'

And Simon Templar beamed around upon the congregation —upon Kuzela, and upon the two bruisers who loafed about the room, and upon the negro who stood behind his chair. And the negro he indicated with a nod.

'One of your little pets?' he inquired; and Kuzela's lips moved in the fraction of a smile.

'It was fortunate that Ngano heard some of the noise,' he said. 'He came out of the house just in time.'

'To sock me over the head from behind?' drawled the Saint genially. 'Doubtless, old dear. But apart from that——'

'Your accomplice escaped, with my property. True. But, my dear Templar, need that prove to be a tragedy? We have your own invaluable self still with us—and you, I am quite sure, know not only where the lady has gone, but also where you have hidden a gentleman whom I should very much like to have restored to me.'

Simon raised languid eyebrows.

'When I was the Wallachian Vice-Consul at Pfaffenhausen,' he said pleasantly, 'our diplomacy was governed by a pictur­esque little Pomeranian poem, which begins:

Der Steiss des Elephanten

Ist nicht, ist nicht so klein.

If you get the idea——'

Kuzela nodded without animosity. His deliberate, ruthless white hands trimmed the end of a cigar.

'You must not think that I am unused to hearing remarks like that, Templar,' he said equably. 'In fact, I remember listening to a precisely similar speech from our friend the Duke of Fortezza. And yet——' He paused to blow a few minute flakes of tobacco leaf from the shining top of the desk, and then his pale bland eyes flicked up again to the Saint's face. . . . 'The Duke of Fortezza changed his mind,' he said.

Simon blinked.

'Do you know,' he said enthusiastically, 'there's one of the great songs of the century there! I can just feel it. Something like this:

The Duke of Fortezza

Quite frequently gets a

      Nimpulse to go blithering off on to the blind,

But the Duchess starts bimbling

And wambling and wimbling

     And threatens to wallop his ducal behind;

And her Ladyship's threats are

So fierce that he sweats

And just sobs as he pets her

With tearful regrets—Ah!

The Duke of Fortezza

     Is changing his mind.

We could polish up the idea a lot if we had time, but you must admit that for an impromptu effort——'

'You underrate my own sense of humour, Templar.' Un­emotionally Kuzela inspected the even reddening of the tip of his cigar, and waved his match slowly in the air till it went out. 'But do you know another mistake which you also make?'

'I haven't the foggiest notion,' said the Saint cheerfully.

'You underrate my sense of proportion.'

The Saint smiled.

'In many ways,' he murmured, 'you remind me of the late Mr. Garniman. I wonder how you'll get on together.'

The other straightened up suddenly in his chair. For a moment the mask of amiable self-possession fell from him.

'I shall be interested to bandy words with you later—if you survive, my friend.' He spoke without raising his voice; but two little specks of red burned in the cores of his eyes, and a shimmering marrow of vitriolic savagery edged up through his unalteringly level intonation. 'For the present, our time is short, and you have already wasted more than your due allow­ance. But I think you understand me.' Once again, a smooth evanescent trickle of honey over the bitingly measured sylla­bles. 'Come, now, my dear young friend, it