remember that that little toy could at the touch of her finger splutter a hail of sudden death into any-one who tried to put over any funny business. She put it back in her pocket and patted it affectionately.
The housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen to see who had come in, informed her that Miss Girton had returned half an hour since, and Patricia felt her heart pounding unevenly as she went to the drawing room.
To her surprise, the door was locked. She rattled the handle, and presently Agatha Girton answered.
'Who's that?'
'Me — Patricia.'
'I can't see you now.'
The girl frowned.
'It's important,' she persisted. 'I want to talk to you.'
'Well, Pm busy, and I can't spare the time. Come back presently — or if you're upstairs I'll call you when I'm ready.'
Patricia's fist clenched, but it was no use making a scene. She would have to wait till Agatha Girton came out.
But what was this secrecy for? Miss Girton had never before locked herself up in the drawing room. Nor, before last night, had she even spoken so abruptly without cause — it seemed as if she was actually frightened and jumpy. And what was this new occupation which demanded such privacy and such complete isolation?
Patricia went slowly up to her room, racking her brain to fit the pieces in the jig saw together. Was the Tiger rattled after all? Had Simon succeeded as well as that, and was the Tiger even then concentrating on evolving some master stroke of strategy that would release the Tiger Cubs from the net which was drawing round them and at the same time destroy the man who had come so near to defeating them? They were not beaten yet, but the final struggle was only a few hours away — and was it dawning upon the Tiger Cubs that they had almost fatally underestimated their opponent?
There was no time to lose. Already it was getting late, and Aunt Agatha had to be interviewed and a light dinner bolted before Orace arrived to take her back to the Saint punctually for the attack they had planned. The girl kicked off her shoes, stripped to her stockings, and pulled on her bathing costume. She discarded the light dress she had worn and replaced it with a serviceable tweed skirt and a pullover. The automatic went into a pocket in the skirt, and a pair of brogues completed the outfit, So clad, she felt ready for anything.
It was as she was lacing her shoes that she heard a sound which she had not noticed while moving about the room. It came from beneath the floor, muffled and very faint — a murmur of voices. And the drawing room was right under her feet.
She stood up quickly and tiptoed to the window, but the windows of the drawing room must have been shut, for she was able to hear better inside than by leaning out. Then Miss Girton was not alone! But the mutter was so low that Patricia could not even distinguish the voices, though she pressed her ear against the floor, except that she was able to make out that both had a masculine timbre. Aunt Agatha's would be one. Whose was the other?
The girl realized at once the importance of finding out further details about this conference. If she could get a look at the visitor, and overhear some of the conversation, the result might be of inestimable value, for there could be no disputing the fact that all the circumstances combined to adorn-the incident with a distinctly fishy aspect. And if the clue provided were as damning as she hoped it would be, and she were caught eavesdropping ... The girl drew a long breath and felt again for the reassuring heavy sleekness of her weapon. She had told the Saint that she could be more help than hindrance to him, and now was {he time to prove it, The risk attached to the enterprise would have to be faced in the Saintly manner — with a devil-may-care smile and a shrug and a pious hope that the Lord would provide.
'Carry on, brave heart,' said Patricia, and opened the door.
She crept noiselessly down the stairs, but on the last flight she had to stop and deliberate. There were two ways: the door or the windows. The key-hole seemed easier, but she had just remembered that every board in the floor of the old hall had its own vociferous creak. She would have to spy from the garden.
She listened, leaning over the banisters, but the walls and the door were more solid affairs than the floor, and the people in the drawing room must have been talking in subdued tones — perhaps they had just realized the possibility of their being overheard. She could barely catch a whisper of their speech.
As silently as she had descended she climbed the stairs again. The door of Miss Girton's room stood open, and she went in, crossed swiftly, and opened the casement windows. This room was on the opposite side of the house to the drawing room, and just beneath the windows was a kind of shed with a sloping roof. As a schoolgirl, Patricia had often clambered through those windows and taken perilous toboggan rides down the slates, saving herself from the drop by catching her heels in the gutter. Now she was bigger, and the stunt had no terrors for her.
Slithering swiftly over the sill she gathered up her skirt, held on for a second, and then let herself slide. Rotten as it was, the gutter stopped her as safely as it had ever done, in spite of her increased weight. Then she worked herself over the edge, let herself down as far as she could, and let herself fall the remaining five feet, landing lightly on the grass below.
She doubled round the house, and then she had a setback, for the curtains of the drawing-room windows were drawn, and the windows themselves were closed. This had not been so when she came in. Returning from Lapping's, she approached the house from the drawingroom side, and she could not have failed to notice anything so out of the ordinary, for Aunt Agatha verged on the cranky in her passion for fresh air and light even in the most unseasonable weather. Had the visitor, then, arrived after Patricia, or had the curtains been drawn for fear of her nosing round in the garden?
That, however, could be debated later. She stole up and examined both the French windows, but even from the outside she could see that they were fastened, and the hangings had been so carefully arranged that not even a hair's breadth of the room was visible. She could have cried with vexation.
She meditated smashing a pane of glass and bursting in, but a moment's reflection showed her the futility of that course. Simon Templar might have brought it off, but she did not feel so confident of her own power to force the pace. And with two of them against her, in spite of the automatic she might be tricked and overpowered. At a pinch she would have made the attempt, but the issue was too great to take such a chance when a man far more competent to deal with the matter was waiting to do his stuff if she could learn enough to show him where to make the raid. And the one certain thing in a labyrinth of mystery was that a man who visits somebody else's house generally leaves it again sooner or later.
She looked around for a hiding place, and saw at once the summerhouse in a corner of the garden. From there she could watch both the drawing-room windows and the front door — no observation post could have been better placed. She sprinted across to it. There was a window ideally placed, half overgrown with creeper, and through that she could see without being seen. Patricia settled down to, her vigil.
It was about then that her name cropped up in the conversation which was taking place in the drawing room, but that she could not know.
'One little pill — and such a little one!' remarked the man who was talking to Agatha Girton, and he placed the tiny white tablet carefully in the centre of the table. 'You wouldn't think it could make a grown woman sleep like a log for about six hours, would you? But that's what it'll do. Just put it in her coffee after dinner — it'll dissolve in no time — and she'll pass out within five minutes. Lay her out comfortably on the sofa, and I'll collect her about eleven.'
He was a tall, sparsely built man, and although they were alone he kept his soft hat pulled low down over his eyes and his coat collar was turned up to his chin so that only part of his face was visible.
'You can do your own murdering,' snapped Agatha Girton in a strained voice, but the man only laughed.
'Not murder, I promise you. She's strong, and all she'll get will be a slight headache to-morrow morning. You can't imagine I'd kill such a charming girl!'
Miss Girton leaned across the table, thrusting her face down close to him, but in the gloom the shadow of his hat brim fell across his features like a mask.
'Swine!' she hissed.
He moved his hand protestingly.
'Your newly acquired righteousness isn't wasted,' he said. 'I'm honestly very fond of Patricia, but I'm
