The Saint's Getaway

He flicked the automatic adroitly out of Monty's pocket and dropped it into his own; and then a blur of colour moved in the borders of his vision, and his glance shot suddenly across Monty's shoulder.

'Holy smoke!' said the Saint. 'What's this?'

Monty turned round.

It may be chronicled as a matter of solemn historical fact that the second in which he saw what had provoked the Saint's awed ejaculation was one of the most pregnant moments of his life. It was a back-hander from the gods which zoomed clean under his guard and knocked the power of protest out of him. To a man who had laboured so long and steadfastly to uphold the principles of a righteous and sober life in the face of unlimited discouragement, it was the unkindest cut of all.

He stood and stared at the approaching nucleus of his Wa­terloo with all the emotions of a temperance agitator who dis­covers that some practical joker has replenished with neat gin the glass of water from which he has just gulped an ostenta­tious draught of strength for his concluding peroration. He felt that Providence had gone out of its way to plant a banana skin directly under his inoffensive heel. If his guardian angel had bobbed up smirking at that moment with any chatty re­marks about the. weather, Monty would unhesitatingly have socked him under the jaw. And yet the slim girl who was walk­ing towards them across the clearing seemed brazenly un­aware that she was making Nemesis look like a decrepit washerwoman going berserk on a couple of small ports. She was actually smiling at him; and the unblushing impudence of her put the finishing touch to Monty Hayward's debacle.

'It's—it's someone I met on the train,' he said faintly, and knew that Patricia Holm and the Saint were leaning on each other's shoulders in a convulsion of Homeric mirth.

It was Monty's only consolation that his Waterloo could scarcely have overtaken him in a more attractive guise. The awful glare with which he regarded her arrival almost sprained the muscles of his conscience, but it disconcerted her even less than the deplorable exhibition that was going on be­hind him.

'Hullo, Mr. Bandit,' she said calmly.

The Saint freed himself unsteadily from Patricia's embrace. He staggered up alongside the stricken prophet.

'Shall we have her money or her life?' he crooned. 'Or aren't we going to be introduced?'

'I think that would be a good idea,' said the girl; and Monty called up all his battered reserves of self-control.

He glanced truculently around him.

'I'm Monty Hayward,' he said. 'This is Patricia Holm; and that nasty mess is Simon Templar. You can take it that they're both very pleased to meet you. Now, are we allowed to know who you are?'

'I'm Nina Walden.' The girl's introspective survey con­sidered Simon interestedly. 'Aren't you the Saint?'

Simon bowed.

'Lady, you must move in distinguished circles.'

'I do. I'm on the crime staff of the Evening Gazette—New York—and there's nothing more distinguished than that out­side a jail. I thought I recognized your name.'

She took a packet of cigarettes from her bag, placed one in her mouth, and raised her eyebrows impersonally for a light. The Saint supplied it.

'And did you get left behind in the excitement?' he mur­mured.

'I arranged to be left. Your friend told me there was a story coming—he didn't mean to give away any secrets, but he said one word too many when the train stopped. And then when he jumped out and left me floating, I just couldn't re­sist it. It was like having a murder committed on your own doorstep. Everyone was hanging out on this side of the track, so I stepped out on the other side while they were busy and lay low under the embankment. I walked over as soon as the train pulled out, but I certainly thought I should have to chase you a long way. It was nice of you to wait for me.' She smiled at him shamelessly, without a quiver of those down­right eyes. 'Gee—I knew I was going to get a story, but I never guessed it'd be anything like this!'

The Saint brought his lighter slowly back to his pocket. On his left, Monty Hayward was stomaching that final pulverizing wallop of revelation with a look of pained reproach on his face which was far more eloquent than any flow of speech; on his right, Patricia Holm was standing a little aloof, with her hands tucked into the slack of that swashbuckling belt of hers, silently enjoying the humorous flavour of the scene; but the Saint had flashed on far beyond those things. A wave of the inspired opportunism