porter's desk. The Saint's hands were in his pockets, and his step was airy. He stopped just one pace from the desk, and his voice floated softly up across the hall.
'What ho!' said the Saint.
The man at the desk turned.
It was typical of his iron self-restraint that he placed the tip of the long cigarette holder between his teeth before he moved. He turned round without a trace of hurry or excitement, and his recognition of the Saint was the merest flutter of a pencilled eyebrow.
'My dear Mr. Templar!'
The Saint's hands sank deeper into his pockets.
'My dear Rudolf!' There was a suggestion of sardonic mimicry in the Saint's reply. 'Are you staying here?'
The cigarette glowed evenly in its jade setting.
'I was looking for a friend,' said the Crown Prince.
Simon gazed at him mockingly. He had hardly expected to renew his acquaintance with the prince quite so soon; and yet the conversation he had had with the detectives who now slept peacefully in the dining room had illuminated many mysteries. It had indicated, amongst other things, that Rudolf was a worker with a classic turn of speed in his own class—if the Saint had required any enlightenment on that subject. Certain facts had been mentioned in that conversation which could never have been known to the police without Rudolf's assistance. And Simon was wondering what new subtleties were being corkscrewed into the delicate tangle—what new stratagems were unwinding themselves behind the statuesque placidity of the smiling chevalier opposite him. But the Saint's face showed nothing.
'Have you any friends?' he asked guilelessly.
The prince laughed. He took Simon engagingly by the arm.
'There is a quiet corner over there where we can talk. It would be worth your while.'
'D'you think so?' drawled the Saint.
He sauntered indulgently towards an alcove adorned with three glass-topped tables and a litter of old newspapers, and the prince stayed beside him. As they went, the Saint sidled an eye up the stairway and saw that Monty had disappeared. In the same glance, the hands of a clock hanging on one wall came into his field of view; and the position of them printed itself on his memory in a sector of remorseless warning. Two minutes had ticked by since he left the dining room, which gave him six minutes more at the outside before the effects of the dope which had splashed a lurid semicolon into the purplest passage of the official pursuit would be wearing off—even if no interfering waiter uncovered the deception before that. Six hazardous minutes in which to squeeze what he had to learn out of the brain of that man of polished marble, and to select his own riposte. . . . And then Simon felt the light hand of the prince stroking up inside his arm into his armpit and slipping back to his elbow just as lightly, and he knew that the possible hiding-places for jewels on his own person had been comprehensively investigated. Rudolf also had much to learn. It would be a cake-walk of a race with a whirlwind sprint at the finish, but the Saint could find nothing to complain about in that. He chuckled and sank into an armchair.
'Must you do these things?' he inquired mildly. 'You know, I'm rather ticklish, and I might scream.'
The prince settled down and crossed his legs.
'You must not let me detain you too long,' he remarked solicitously. 'Your time must be valuable.'
'Have you anything really interesting to say?' murmured the Saint bluntly.
The prince looked at him.
'This is the third time that you have chosen to meddle in my affairs, Mr. Templar. I have told you before that your persistence might compel me to think of methods of permanent discouragement Believe me, my dear friend, it will only be your own obstinacy which may cause me to take steps which I should genuinely regret.'
'Such as—handing over the vendetta to a couple of overfed policemen? You don't know how disappointed I am about you, Rudolf.'
