Bloem did not answer, and the Saint prattled on:
'Now, I must say you had me thinking very hard over that dud gold mine. Why should any sane man — you observe. Mynheer, that I credit you with being sane — why should any sane man want to get control of a gold mine that hasn't turned up any gold for two years? That's what I said to my broker, and he sent a cable out to the Transvaal especially to find out. Back comes the reply: We Don't Know. The mine hasn't been worked for ages, and only the greenhorn prospectors bother to look over the district — the old hands know that there isn't enough pay dirt for a hundred square miles around the T. T. borings to stop a snail's tooth. And yet our one and only Hans is raking in all the shares he can find, reminding 'Change of a stock they'd all forgotten existed, and every poor little rabbit of a mug investor is hunting up his scrip and wondering whether to unload while the unloading's good or chance his arm for a fortune. All of which, to a nasty, suspicious mind like mine, is distinctly odd.''
'I'm glad to see the worry hasn't prematurely aged you, Mr. Templar,' said Bloem.
'Oh, not at all,' said the Saint. 'You see, just when I was on the point of going off my rocker with the strain, and my relatives were booking a room for me in a nice quiet asylum, along comes a flash of inspiration. Just suppose, Bloem — only suppose — that a bunch of bad hats had brought off one of the biggest bank breaks in history. Suppose they'd got away with something over a cool million in gold. Suppose they'd humped the stuff all the way over the Atlantic, and fetched up and settled down and stowed the body away in an English village so far off the beaten track that it'd be lost for good if it wasn't for the railway time-tables. And then suppose — mind you, this is only a theory-suppose they felt quite happy that the dicks weren't on the trail, and began to puzzle out how they were going to cash the proceeds of the dirty work. First of all, melt it down — there aren't so many warriors hawking golden American Eagles around that the money-changers don't look twice at you when you try to pass off a sack of 'em. Right. But now you aren't so much better off, because a golden million tots up to a hairy great ingot, and people would start asking where the stuff came from — whether you grow it in the kitchen garden or make it in the bathroom before breakfast. What then?'
'What, indeed?' prompted Bloem in a tired voice.
'Why,' exclaimed the Saint delightedly, as though he had caught Bloem with a conundrum, 'what's wrong with getting hold of a dead-as-mut-ton gold mine, losing a lot of gold in it, and then finding it again?'
'Quite,' said Bloem with purely perfunctory interest.
Simon shook his head.
'It won't wash, Angel Face,' he said. 'It won't wash. Really it won't. And you know it. They may have christened me Simon, but I've got a lot less simple since then.'
Bloem turned away very wearily, as if he found the Saint's monologues so boring that he had great difficulty in keeping awake, but that did not stop him hearing the Saint's soft chuckle of sheer merriment. Bloem was good, but he was not-quite good enough. There had been few doubts m the Saint's mind about the accuracy of his diagnosis, and those that had existed were now gloriously dispelled. Nearly all the threads were in his hands, and the tangle was gradually straightening out.
But who was the Tiger? That was the most important question of all, barring only the whereabouts of the spoil. Who in all Baycombe kept under his modest hat the brain that had conceived and organized that stupendous coup? Bloem, Bit-tie, and Carn could be ruled out. That left the highly respected Sir Michael Lapping, the pleasant but brainless Mr. Lomas-Coper, the masculine Miss Girton, and the two retired and retiring I.C.S. men, Messrs. Shaw and Smith. Five runners, and a darned sight too little help from the form book. The Saint frowned. Tackling the problem in the light of the law of probability, every one of the possibles had to be ruled out, which was manifestly absurd. Wiring into it with any mystery story as a textbook, it at once appeared that Lapping was too far above suspicion to escape it, Algy was too frankly brainless to be anything but the possessor of the Great Brain, Agatha Girton was quite certain to turn out to be a man masquerading as a woman, and Shaw and Smith kept too much in the background to avoid the limelight. Which once again was manifestly absurd. And the order of seniority was of little assistance, for Bloem, Algy, Agatha Girton, and Bittle had all been living in Baycombe for some time before the Tiger smashed the strong-room of the Confederate Bank of Chicago — on a general estimate, Simon reckoned that the Tiger had spent at least five years over that crime. And that was a deduction that confirmed the Saint's respect for the Tiger's brilliance without going any distance to aid the solution of the mystery of the Tiger's identity.
The Saint had got no further when Bittle returned and drew Bloem to one side. Simon could only hear a word here and there. He gathered that the Tiger was furious with Bittle for taking so long and making so much noise over capturing the prisoner; that Bittle would have liked to see the Tiger do better himself; that the Tiger had an Idea. There followed some mutterings that the Saint did not catch, and then came one sentence quite distinctly:
'The Tiger says we must let him go.'
Bloem gave an exclamation, and Bittle talked further. The Saint's brain was whirring like a buzz saw. Let him go, with so much given away and most of the court cards in their hands? Simon wondered if he had heard aright, but in a moment Bittle left Bloem and came over to confirm the sensitiveness of the Saint's auditory nerves.
'It is getting late, Mr. Templar,' said the millionaire, 'and we all feel that the festivities have been kept up long enough. Pray do not let us detain you any longer.'
'Meaning?' suggested Simon, with as much levelness as he could command.
'Meaning that you are free to go as soon as you like.'
Bittle looked hard at the Saint as he spoke, and the malevolence that glittered in his eyes belied the geniality of his speech. Bittle was clearly upset at having to carry out such a command. He barked an order, and the escort of roughnecks sidled, out of the room, closing the door behind them. Bloem was fidgeting with his tie, and he kept one hand in a pocket that bulged heavily.
'That's nice of you,' drawled the Saint. You won't mind if I take Anna, will you?'
He strolled coolly over to the secretaire, jerked open a drawer, and retrieved the knife that they had taken from him, slipping it back into the sheath under his sleeve. Then he faced the two men again.
'Really,' he remarked in a tone of polite inquiry, 'your kindness overwhelms me. And I never put you down for a brace of birds too gravely burdened with faith, hope, and charity. Is Miss Holm such an insuperable obstacle — to Supermen like yourselves?'
'I think,' said Bittle smoothly, 'that you would be wise not to ask too many questions. It is quite enough for you to know, Mr. Templar, that your phenomenal luck has held — perhaps for the last time. You had better say good-night before we change our minds.'
The Saint smiled.
'You have no minds,' he said. 'The Tiger says 'Hop!' and you blinkin' well hop. ... I wonder, now, is it because you're scared of Orace? Orace is a devil when he's roused, and if you'd bumped me off and he'd got to know about it there'd've been hell to pay. Possibly you're wise.'
'Possibly,' snarled Bloem, as though he did not believe it, and the Saint nodded.
'There is always the chance that I might go and talk to the police, isn't there?'
Bittle was lighting a cigar, and he looked up with a twisted mouth.
'You are not a man who loses his nerve and goes yelping to Scotland Yard, Mr. Templar,' he answered. 'Also, there is quite a big prize at stake. I think we can rely on you.'
The Saint stared back with a kind of reluctant admiration.
'Almost I see in you the making of sportsmen,' he said.
'I can only hope,' returned Bittle impassively, 'that you will find the sport to your liking.'
Simon shook his head.
'You won't disappoint me, Beautiful One,' he murmured. 'I feel it in my bones.... And so to bed.... Give the Tiger my love, and tell him I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet him.' And the Saint paused, struck by a sudden thought. 'By the way — about Fernando. You know somebody's going to swing for him, don't you? I mean, if things start to go badly, make sure the Tiger gets all the blame to himself, or else you might swing with him.'
'We shall be careful,' Bittle assured him.
'Splendid,' said the Saint. 'Well, cheerio, souls. Sleep tight, and pleasant dreams.'
He sauntered to the French windows and opened them.
'If you don't mind — I have a rooted dislike for dark corridors. One never knows, does one?'
'Mr. Templar.' The millionaire stopped him. 'Before you go — '
