answer out of a mouth like a steel trap. 'I thought it looked interesting. The opportunity of experimenting with it on the inventor is almost too good to miss, isn't it?'
The prince smiled.
'Was that the object of your visit?'
'It was not, Rudolf—as you know. But maybe you're right. Business is business, as the actress was always having to remind the bishop, and pleasure must come second.' A ray of carefree mockery came back into the Saint's inclement gaze. 'What a jolly chat you'll be able to have with Comrade Krauss after I've gone, won't you? You will find that you have much in common. When a once brilliant man is passing into his second childhood, it must be a great relief to be able to exchange sympathy with another who is undergoing the same unenviable experience—mustn't it?'
The prince inhaled slowly from his cigarette.
'I did not know you spoke German, Mr, Templar,' he remarked.
'Ah, but there are so many things one never knows till it's too late,' murmured the Saint kindly. 'For instance, you never knew that I'd be listening in to your dramatic little scene, did you? And yet there I was, perching outside your window with the dicky-birds and soaking up knowledge with both tonsils. . . . Well, well, well! We all have our ups and downs, as the bishop philosophically observed when the bull caught him in the thin part of the pants.'
'I think I owe you an apology,' said the prince quietly. 'I underrated your abilities—it is a mistake I have made before.'
Simon beamed at him.
'But it was so obvious, wasn't it? There was I with that bonny little box of boodle, and no means of opening it. And there were you announcing yourself as the guy who could open it or get it opened. At first I was annoyed. I regret to say that for a time I even contemplated the advantages of your meeting with a fatal accident. Since we both coveted the same prize——'
'Spare me,' said the prince, with faint irony. 'The point is already clear.'
The Saint glanced whimsically at the open strong-box. Then his gaze flicked cavalierly back to the prince's face.
'Should I say—thank you?'
Their eyes clashed like crossed rapiers. Each of them knew the emotions that were scorching through the other's mind; neither of them betrayed one scantling of his own thoughts or feelings. The barrage of intangible steel seethed up between them in an interval of tautening silence. . . . And then the prince looked down at the glowing end of his cigarette.
'Your half-charged cartridges are very useful, Mr. Templar. But suppose I were to cry out—you would gain nothing by killing me——'
'I don't know. I should gain nothing by not killing you. And you'd look rather funny if you suddenly felt a piece of lead taking a walk through your appendix. It's that element of doubt, Rudolf, which is so discouraging.'
The prince nodded.
'The psychology of these situations has always interested me,' he said conversationally.
He had picked the stub of cigarette out of his holder, and the movement he made was so smooth and natural, so perfectly timed, that even Simon Templar was deceived. The prince was reaching languidly for the ash tray while he spoke . . . and then his hand shot past its mark. The lid of the open strong-box fell with a slam; and the prince was smiling.
'By the way,' he said coolly, 'my appendix is in Budapest'
He must have known that his life hung by a hair, but not a muscle of his face flinched. There was sudden death in the Saint's eyes, cold murder in the tenseness of his trigger finger; but the prince might have been talking polite trivialities at an Embassy reception. . . . And suddenly the Saint laughed. He couldn't help it. That exhibition of petrified nerve was the most breath-taking thing he had ever witnessed. He laughed, and scooped in the box with his left hand.
'Some day you'll sit on an iceberg and boil,' he predicted flintly. 'But you don't want to take another chance like that this evening, sweetheart. Get back against that wall and put your hands up!'
The prince obeyed unhurriedly. With his back
