millionaires— one fat, one thin, one sozzled—three cosmopolitan millionaires' wives—ditto, but shuffled—a novelist, an actor, a politician, four Parsees, three Hindus, two Chinese, and a wild man from Borneo. Simon Templar inspected every one of them who could by any stretch of imagination have come within the frame of the picture, and acquired sufficient data to write three books or six hundred and eighty-seven modern novels. But he did not find Gunner Perrigo.
He came to the end of the last coach, and stood gazing moodily out of the window before starting back on the return journey.
And it was while he was there that he saw a strange sight.
The first manifestation of it did not impress him immediately. It was simply a scrap of white that went drifting past the window. His eyes followed it abstractedly, and then reverted to their gloomy concentration on the scenery. Then two more scraps of white flittered past his nose, and a second later he saw a spread of red stuff fluttering feebly on the wire fence beside the line.
The Saint frowned, and watched more attentively. And a perfect cataract of whatnots began to aviate past his eyes and distribute themselves about the route. Big whatnots and little whatnots, in divers formations and half the colours of the rainbow, went wafting by the window and scattered over the fields and hedges. A mass of green taffeta flapped past, looking like a bilious vulture after an argument with a steam hammer, and was closely followed by a jaundiced cotton seagull that seemed to have suffered a similar experience. A covey of miscellaneous bits and pieces drove by in hot pursuit. No less than eight palpitating banners of assorted hues curvetted down the breeze and perched on railings and telegraph poles by the wayside. It went on until the entire landscape seemed to be littered with the loot of all the emporia of Knightsbridge and the Brompton Road.
And suddenly the meaning of it flashed upon the Saint—so suddenly and lucidly that he threw back his head and bowed before a gust of helpless mirth.
He spun round to the door beside him. He had made sure that it was locked, but he must have been mistaken. He heaved his shoulder at it, and it burst open—-it had been temporarily secured with a gimlet, as he discovered later. But at that moment he was not curious about that. He hadn't a doubt in his head that his latest and most sudden inspiration was right, and he knew exactly what he was going to do about it.
Five minutes later, after a brief interlude for wash and brush-up purposes, he was careering blissfully back along the corridor on one of the most supremely joyous journeys of his life.
At the compartment at which Perrigo had been, he stopped, and opened the door.
'Miss Lovedew,' he said pensively, and again the impetiginous female looked up and acknowledged the charge, 'Is your luggage insured?'
'Of course,' said the woman. 'Why?'
'You should begin making out your claim immediately,' said the Saint.
The woman stared.
'I don't understand you. What's happened? Are you one of the company's servants?'
'I am the head cook and bottle-washer,' said the Saint gravely, 'and I did not like your red flannel nighties.'
He closed the door again and passed on, carolling hilariously to himself, and leaving the lady to suffer from astounded fury as well as acne.
In the Pullman he found Patricia gazing disconsolately in front of her. Her face lighted up as he arrived.
'Did you find him?'
Simon sat down.
'What luck did you have?'
'Just sweet damn-all,' said the girl wryly. 'I've been over my part of the train four times, and I wouldn't have missed Perrigo if he'd disguised himself as a mosquito.'
'I am inspired,' said the Saint.
He took the wine list and his pencil, and wrote rapidly. Then he held up the sheet and read:
