The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

'A mere pastime for me, but I believe Milton used to sweat blood over it,' he remarked complacently. 'Soda or water, Harry?'

'Neat, please, Mr. Templar.'

Simon brought over the glass of Highland cream, and Long Harry sipped it, and crossed and uncrossed his legs awkwardly.

'I hope you don't mind my coming to see you, sir,' he ventured at last.

'Not at all,' responded the Saint heartily. 'Always glad to see any Eton boys here. What's the trouble?'

Long Harry fidgeted, twiddling his fingers and corrugating his brow. He was the typical 'old lag,' or habitual criminal, which is to say that outside of business hours he was a per­fectly ordinary man of slightly less than average intelligence and rather more than average cunning. On this occasion he was plainly and ordinarily ill at ease, and the Saint surmised that he had only begun to solve his worries when he mustered up the courage to give that single, brief, and symptomatic ring at the front door bell.

Simon lighted a cigarette and waited impassively, and pres­ently his patience reaped its harvest.

'I wondered—I thought maybe I could tell you something that might interest you, Mr. Templar.'

'Sure.' The Saint allowed a thin jet of smoke to trickle through his lips, and continued to wait.

'It's about . . . it's about the Scorpion, Mr. Templar.'

Instantaneously the Saint's eyes narrowed, the merest fraction of a millimetre, and the inhalation that he drew from his cigarette was long and deep and slow. And then the stare that he swivelled round in the direction of Long Harry was wide blue innocence itself.——'

'What Scorpion?' he inquired blandly.

Long Harry frowned.

'I thought you'd 've known about the Scorpion, of course,Mr. Templar, you being——'

'Yeah?'

Simon drawled out the prompting diphthong in a honeyed slither up a gently persuasive G-string; and Long Harry shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

'Well, you remember what you used to be, Mr. Templar. There wasn't much you didn't know in those days.'

'Oh, yes—once upon a time. But now—'

'Last time we met, sir——'

The Saint's features relaxed, and he smiled.

'Forget it, Harold,' he advised quietly. 'I'm now a respect­able citizen. I was a respectable citizen the last time we met, and I haven't changed. You may tell me anything you like, Harry—as one respectable citizen to another—but I'd recom­mend you to forget the interview as you step over the front door mat. I shall do the same—it's safer.'

Long Harry nodded.

'If you forget it, sir, it'll be safer for me,' he said seriously.

'I have a hopeless memory,' said the Saint carefully. 'I've already forgotten your name. In another minute, I shan't be sure that you're here at all. Now shoot the dope, son.'

'You've got nothing against me, sir?'

'Nothing. You're a professional burglar, housebreaker, and petty larcenist, but that's no concern of mine. Teal can attend to your little mistakes.'

'And you'll forget what I'm going to say—soon as ever I've said it?'

'You heard me.'

'Well,  Mr. Templar——' Long Harry cleared his throat, took another pull at his drink, and blinked nervously for some seconds. 'I've worked for the Scorpion, Mr. Templar,' he said suddenly.

Simon Templar never moved a muscle.

'Yes?'

'Only once, sir—so far.' Once having left the diving-board, Long Harry