The Saint's Getaway

thrusting into his ribs. And then the Saint managed to open one of his twingeing eyes, and saw the lights of a car coming down the road.

2

'I need not bother to tell you,' murmured the prince's vel­vety intonation, 'what would happen if you were so unwise as to endeavour to attract attention.'

Simon said nothing.

The headlights of the approaching car shone straight into the limousine, bathing the tableau in a garish blaze. Cer­tainly there was nothing whatever about it to arouse suspicion. Prince Rudolf and the Saint, two amicable orphans of the storm, were patiently waiting to continue their fraternal jour­ney; what time their chauffeur, diligently bent double over the hind quarters of the chariot, was working to repair the mishap that had delayed them. A mournful and pathetic scene, no doubt, but by no means so uncommon that it should have im­bued the innocent wayfarer with anything but thankfulness for his own better fortune. . . . And yet the other car was slowing up as it went past them, and through the rear window of the limousine they could see it pull in to the side of the road a few yards further on. . . .

Prince Rudolf looked at the Saint again, and spilled a short cylinder of ash deliberately into the tray beside him.

'If this should be your friend,' he said, 'your actions will have to be extraordinarily discreet.'

A man was walking towards them from the other car. As he drew nearer, a glint of light shimmered on his helmet and flickered over the trappings of his uniform. He came to the side of the limousine and opened the door, standing stiffly in the opening. His face was in the shadow.

'Entschuldigen Sie mich, mein Herr——'

The Saint never moved a muscle; and yet the whole of his inside was singing. For the stilted accent was impeccable, but the voice was Monty Hayward's.

'Excuse me, sir, but do you know this man?'

He addressed the prince, and indicated Simon with a curt movement of his head.

The prince smiled faintly.

'I cannot say,' he answered, 'that he is a friend of mine.'

'Your name, please?'

The prince took out his wallet and extracted a card. Monty carried it to one of the side lamps and studied it. When he came back, he clicked his heels.

'I beg your Highness's pardon. Perhaps your Highness does not know the identity of his guest?'

'I should like to be informed.'

'He is a desperate criminal who calls himself the Saint. He is wanted on many charges. He has already to-night thrown three detectives into the river.'

For a fraction of a second the prince paused.

And then, with a deprecatory shrug, he showed his gun,

'I am not surprised,' he said calmly. 'As a matter of fact, he has also attempted to rob me.' He placed one hand on the strong-box which lay on the seat beside him. 'I have some family heirlooms with me which would naturally attract a thief of his calibre. But happily my chauffeur and myself were able to overpower him. We were about to take him to the Po-lizeiamt; but possibly you could save us the trouble.'

Simon had to admire the consummate skill with which the part was played. It was an accomplished feat of impromptu histrionics which won the unstinted applause of his artistic soul. The prince was a past master. His unruffled frankness, his engaging modesty, his felicitous rendering of the whole poise of royalty accidentally embroiled in the sordid excitements of common lawlessness—every delicate touch was irreproachable.

Again Monty clicked his heels. The Saint knew that he had had three years at Bonn in which to perfect his German; but this performance revealed a new Monty Hayward, in the guise of yet another gifted actor lost to the silver screen.

'I shall be honoured to relieve your Highness of further inconvenience.'