she had not seen before-the Saint concentrating. He did not interrupt her once, sitting back with his eyes shut and his face so composed that he might well have been asleep. But when she had finished he was frowning thoughtfully.
'Curiouser and curiouser,' said the Saint. 'So Aunt Aggie is one of the bhoys? But what in the sacred name of haggis could anyone blackmail Aunt Aggie with? Speaking quite reverently, I can't imagine she was ever ravishing enough, even in her prime, to acquire anything like a Past.'
'It does seem absurd, but — '
The Saint scratched his head.
'What do you know about her?'
'Very little, really,' Patricia replied. 'I've sort of always taken her for granted. My mother died when I was twelve — my father was killed hunting three years before that — and she became my guardian. I never saw much of her until quite recently. She spent most other time abroad, on the Riviera. She had a villa at Hyeres. I stayed on at school very late, and I was generally alone here during the holidays — I mean, she was away, though I usually had school friends staying with me, or I stayed with them. She didn't do much for me, but my bills were paid regularly, and she wrote once a fortnight.'
'When did she settle down in Baycombe, then?'
'When she came back from South Africa. About six years ago I had a letter from her from Port Said saying that she was on her way to the Cape. She was away a year, and I hardly had a line from her. Then one day she turned up and said she'd had enough of travelling and was going to live at the Manor.”
'And did she?'
'She used to go abroad occasionally, but they were quite short trips.'
'When was the last expedition?'
She pondered.
'About two years ago, or a bit less. I can't remember the exact date.'
'Now think,' suggested the Saint — 'roughly, you hardly saw her at all between the time she introduced herself as your guardian, when you were twelve, until she came back from South Africa, when you were sixteen or seventeen.'
'Nearer seventeen.'
'And in that time anything might have hap-pened”
She shrugged.
'I suppose so. But it's too ridiculous....'
*'Of course it is,' agreed Simon blandly. 'It's all too shriekingly ridiculous for words. It's ridiculous that our Tiger should have broken the Confederate Bank of Chicago and lugged the moidores over to Baycombe to await disposal. It's ridiculous to think that there are some hundredweights of twenty-two carat gold hidden somewhere not two miles from here. But there are. What we've got to assume is that on this joy ride nothing is too ridiculous to be real. Which reminds me — what do you know about the old houses in Baycombe? There must be something conspicuously old enough for Fernando to have thought the Old House was sufficient address.'
He was surprised at her immediate answer.
'There are two that'd fit,' she said. 'One is just out of the village, inland. It used to be an inn, and the name of it was the Old House. It’s falling to bits now — the proprietor lost his license in the year Dot, and nobody took it over. It's supposed to be haunted. The windows are all boarded up, and a dozen men could live there without being seen if they went in and out at night.”
The Saint smashed fist into palm, his eyes lighting up.
'Moonshine and Moses!' he whooped. 'Pat, you're worth a fortune to this partnership! And I was just thinking we'd come to a standstill. Why, we haven't moved yet! .. . What's the other one?'
'The island just round the point.' She waved her arm to the east. 'The fishermen call it the Old House, but you wouldn't have noticed it because if only looks like that from the sea. The sides are very steep, and on one side it juts right out over the water, like those old houses where the first floor is bigger than the ground floor.'
Simon jumped up and walked to the edge of the cliff, so that he could see the island. It was about a mile from the shore — nothing but an outcrop of rock thickly overgrown with bushes and stunted trees. He came back jubilant.
'It might be either,' he said exultantly, 'or it might be both — the Tiger may have a home from home in your defunct pub, and he may have parked the doubloons on the island. Anyway, we'll draw both covers and see. Thinking it over, I guess I've hit it. The Tiger'd want to have the gold someplace he could ship it from easily — remember, it's got to go to Africa. And by the same token ... Here, hold on half a sec.'
He disappeared into the Pill Box and came back in a moment with field glasses. Then he focussed on the horizon and began to sweep it carefully from west to east. He had covered three quarters of the arc when he stopped and stared for a full minute, suddenly rigid.
'And there she blows,' he muttered.
He handed her the binoculars and pointed northeast.
'See what you make of it.'
'It looks like a couple of masts sticking up.'
'Motor ship — no funnels,' he explained. 'The Bristol shipping passes here, but we're back in a sort of big bay, and I don't think they'd stand in as near as that. But we'll just make sure.'
He took the glasses from her again and went into the Pill Box, and she followed. He fossicked about in the kitchen till he found a piece of board, the remains of a packing case, and this he settled in one of the embrasures, truing it up level with little wedges of newspaper. Then he put the field glasses on it and took a sight on one of the masts by means of a couple of pins stuck in the board.
'We'll give her five minutes.'
She grasped his meaning at once.
'You think they're waiting to come in after dark?'
'No less. Comrade Bloem hasn't done all he'd like to with T. T. Deeps, but he'll have some weeks' grace while the stuffs getting to the mine. And he daren't let it lie around here any longer, in case my luck holds and I don't get bumped off according to schedule. I've rattled the Tiger!'
He was keeping an eye on his watch, and the minutes ticked away very slowly.
'Is Dr. Carn a detective?' she asked.
'That's hit it in one,' affirmed the Saint. 'But don't let on you know. It wouldn't be sporting not to give the boy a fair run.'
'Then aren't you a detective?' she stammered in bewilderment. 'I thought you were friendly rivals — — that was the only explanation I could work out last night.'
The Saint smiled grimly.
'Rivals — more or less friendly — yes,' he said. “But I'm not a detective, and never was. I'm playing for my own hand, with an enormous quantity of ha'pence coming to me if I win, and everybody's kicks if I lose. Profession, gentleman adventurer: i.e., available for any job involving plenty of money and plenty of trouble, suitable for a man who doesn't bother much about the letter of the law and who's prepared to take his licking without a yelp if he gets landed. That's me. Like this. I happened to find Fernando, and as soon as I’d got the thing taped out I took a trip to Chicago and saw the boss of the Confederate. 'Here's nearly ayear since your strong room was busted,' I said,
He was looking steadily at her, but she did not change colour. But the Saint was never a faker, and this was his call to clean the whole sheet, so that she could take it or leave it as she chose and would never be able to say he hadn't played square. He rubbed it in with brutal directness:
'That's the way I've lived for years. Pretty well, all things considered, so that if this gamble turns up I'll be able to retire and settle down as soon as I like, and not have to stint myself anywhere. In those years I've committed about half the crimes in the Calendar, at the expense of crooks. It's a sporting game — man to man, and devil take the mug: and the police, for obvious reasons, aren't invited to interfere by either side. Bloem's the first to break that rule; but the Tiger isn't a sportsman — he's just a pot hunter. Still, I doubt if your friends would
