The Saint's Getaway

very dull. You just happen to have dropped into one of the high spots.'

'It must be an acquired taste.'

Patricia laughed, and passed him her cigarette case.

'You're having the time of your life, really, if you'd only admit it. It's a shame about you, Monty—you're wasted in an office. Simon would give you a partnership for the asking. Why don't you stay in with us?'

'I think I am staying in with you,' said Monty. 'We shall probably go on staying together—in the same clink. Still, I'm always ready to listen to any proposals you have to make.' He struck a match and held it out for her. 'Are you included in the goodwill of the business?'

She smiled.

'I might let you hold my hand sometimes.'

'And I suppose as a special treat I could kiss your toes when I'd murdered someone you didn't approve of.'

'Maybe you might even do that.'

'Well,' said Monty definitely, 'I don't think that's nearly good enough. You'll have to think of something much more substantial if you want me to be tempted.'

The girl's blue eyes bantered him.

'Aren't you a bit mercenary?'

'No. It's the Saint's fault for leaving us alone together so often. I assure you, Patricia, I'm not to be trusted for a min­ute.'

'We'll ask Simon about it,' said the girl wickedly, and stood up.

She went over to the window and glanced up and down the platform. Her watch showed less than a minute to the time they were scheduled to start: already the crowd was melting into its compartments, doors were being slammed, and the late arrivals were scurrying about to find their seats. . . . Behind her, a benevolent old clergyman with a pink face and white side-whiskers stopped in the doorway and peered round be­nignly: Monty leered at him hideously, and he departed. . . . An official came in and checked their tickets without paying them the least attention. . . .

Patricia was tapping one sensibly rounded brogue on the low heel of the other. She turned and spoke over her shoul­der:

'Any idea what can have kept him?'

'I could think of several,' said Monty, with a callousness which scarcely attempted to ring true. 'The silly mutt ought to have got away with us instead of hanging around talk­ing to Rudolf. Personally I'd rather sit down and talk to a rattlesnake.'

'He had to find out what game Rudolf was playing,' said the girl shortly; and at that moment a shadow fell across them and they both turned round.

Simon Templar stood before them—the Saint himself, with one long arm reaching to the luggage rack and his feet braced against the preliminary jolting of the train, gazing down at them with a wide, reckless grin. Even so it was a second or two before they recognized him. A white straw hat was tilted onto the back of his head, and a monocle in his right eye completed the amazing work of wiping every fragment of character from his face and reducing the features to amiable vacuity. A large carnation burgeoned in his buttonhole, and his tie was pulled into a tight knot and sprung foppishly forward from his neck. Patricia had actually seen him at the far end of the platform and dismissed him without further thought

'Hail, Columbia,' said the Saint

Monty Hayward recovered magnificently from his surprise.

'Go away,' he said. 'I thought we'd got rid of you. We were just getting along splendidly.'

The Saint stared at him rudely.

'Hullo,' he said. 'What's happened to your little soup strainer? I always told you something would happen if you didn't keep moth balls in it.'

'It was removed by special request,' said Monty, with some dignity. 'Pat told me it