Patricia reached across the table and captured the Saint's hands.
'Simon, I won't be out of it! Where
'If you talk much louder, he'll hear you.'
'He isn't in this coach!'
'He's in the next one.'
The girl stared.
'What does he look like?'
Simon smiled, lighting a cigarette.
'He's chosen the simplest and nearly the most effective disguise there is. He's got himself up as a very fair imitation of our old pal the Negro Spiritual.' The Saint looked at her with merry eyes. 'He's done it well, too; but I spotted him at once. Hence my parable. Did you ever see a nigger with light yellow eyes? They may exist, but I've never met one. There used to be a blue-eyed Sikh in Hong Kong who became quite famous, but that's the only similar freak I've met. So when I got a glimpse of those eyes I took another peek at the face—and Perrigo it was. Remember him now?'
Patricia nodded breathlessly.
'Why couldn't I see it?' she exclaimed.
'You've got to have a brain for that sort of thing,' said the Saint modestly.
'But—yes, I remember now—the carriage he's in is full——'
'And you're wondering how I'm going to get his trousers off him? Well, the problem certainly has its interesting angles. How does one steal a man's trousers on a crowded train? You mayn't believe it, but I see difficulties about that myself.'
An official came down the train, checking up visas and issuing embarkation vouchers. Simon obtained a couple of passes, and smoked thoughtfully for some minutes. And then he laughed and stood up.
'Why worry?' he wanted to know. 'I've thought of a much better thing to do. One of my really wonderful inspirations.'
'What's that?'
Simon tapped her on the shoulder.
'I'm going to beguile the time by baiting Bertie,' he said, with immense solemnity. 'C'mon!'
He hurtled off in his volcanic way, with a long-striding swing of impetuous limbs, as if a gale of wind swept him on.
And Patricia Holm was smiling as she ran to catch him up— the unfathomable and infinitely tender smile of all the women who have been doomed to love romantic men. For she knew the Saint better than he knew himself. He could not grow old. Oh, yes, he would grow in years, would feel more deeply, would think more deeply, would endeavour with spasmodic soberness to fall in line with the common facts of life; but the mainsprings of his character could not change. He would deceive himself, but he would never deceive her. Even now, she knew what was in his mind. He was trying to brace himself to march down the road that all his friends had taken. He was daring himself to take up the glove that the High Gods had thrown at his feet, and to take it up as he would have taken up any other challenge—with a laugh and a flourish, and the sound of trumpets in his ears. And already she knew how she would answer him.
She came up behind him and caught his elbow.
'But is this going to help you, lad?'
'It will amuse me,' said the Saint. 'And it's an act of
