about his collection of early Woolworth porcelain,' he drawled. ' 'I never wanted a drag in politics or any other racket,' says Scarface Al. 'Art is the only thing that counts a damn with me. Why can't you guys ever leave me alone?' '
Monty laughed, operating the Saint's cigarette case with one hand and a siphon with the other.
'Surely. But still—this sort of thing's all very well for you, old sportsman, seeing as how you've chosen to make it your job; but why d'you want to boot me into it?'
'My dear chap, I thought it would be good for your liver. Besides, you can run awfully fast.'
Monty plugged a cushion at him and went over and sat on the arm of the chair which Patricia had taken.
'Do you allow him to do this sort of thing, Pat?' he asked.
'What sort of thing?' inquired the girl blandly.
'Why—inveigling respectable editors into free fights and kidnappings and what not Haven't you noticed what he's been doing all night? He goes around throwing people into rivers— he grabs people off the streets and runs away with them—he lets his pals be chased all over Europe by hordes of heathen policemen, while he goes and hides—and then he stands around here as happy as a dog with a new flea and can't see anything to apologize for. Is that the way you let him behave?'
'Yes,' said Patricia imperturbably.
The Saint picked up a glass and hitched himself onto the table. He blew Patricia a kiss and looked at Monty Hayward thoughtfully.
'Seriously, old lad,' he said, 'we owe you no small hand. You drew the fire like a blinkin' hero—just as if you'd been trained to it from the kindergarten. But I'm damned sorry if you feel you've been landed in a place where you ought not to be. There's no one I'd rather have with me in a spot of good clean fun, but if you really hear the call of the old hymn book and hassock——'
Monty flicked ash into the fireplace.
'It's not the hymn book and hassock, you fathead—it's the Consolidated Press. As I told you at dinner, I've done a week's job in a couple of days, so I reckon I've earned five days' holiday. But that's not going to help me a lot if at the end of those five days I'm just beginning a fifteen-year stretch in some beastly German clink. . . . Anyway, what's happened to Stanislaus?'
Simon jerked a thumb towards the bedroom door.
'I dumped him out of the way. When he comes to, he's going to throw a heap of light on some dark subjects. I was waiting for you to arrive before I did anything to speed up his awakening, so that you could join the interested audience.' He stood up and crushed his cigarette end into an ash tray. 'And in the circumstances, Monty, that seems to be the very next item on the programme. We'll get together and hear Stanislaus give tongue, and then we'll have a little more idea of the scheme of events and prizes in this here rodeo.'
Monty nodded.
'That seems a fairly sound notion,' he said.
The Saint went over and opened the communicating door. He had taken two steps into the room when he felt a distinct draught of cold air fanning his face; and then his eyes had attuned themselves to the darkness, and he saw the rectangle of starlight where the window was. He stepped back without a sound, and his hand caught Monty's fingers on the electric light switch.
'Not for just a moment, old dear,' he said quietly. 'That was the mistake Pat made.'
He vanished into the gloom; and in a little while Monty heard a faint metallic rattle and saw the Saint's figure silhouetted against the oblong of dim light. Simon was dosing the window carefully—and Simon knew quite well that that window had already been closed when he dropped Stanislaus on the bed and handcuffed him there. But the Saint was perfectly calm about it. He drew the curtains across the window, and turned; and his voice spoke evenly out of the dark.
'The notion was very sound, Monty—very sound indeed,' he said. 'Only it was a little late. You can put the light on now.'
Light came, drenching down in a sudden blazing flood from the central panel in the ceiling and the alabaster-shaded brackets along the walls. It quenched itself in the deep green curtains and the priceless carpet that had been fitted to a queen's bedchamber, and lay whitely over the spotless linen of the carved oak bed.
