Costello fingered his wispy moustache.
'And we sell out on Friday morning,' he said.
Mr. Oates nodded emphatically.
'We do more than sell out. We sell ourselves short, and unload twice as much stock as we're holding. The story'll get all over England over the week-end, and when the Exchange opens on Monday morning the shares'll be two a penny. We make our profit both ways.'
'It's a big risk,' said Hammel seriously.
'Well, I'm taking it for you, ain't I?' said Mr. Oates. 'All you have to do is to help me spread the buying and selling about, so it don't look too much like a one-man deal. I'm standing to take all the knocks. But it can't go wrong. I've used Ischolskov before—I've got too much on him for him to try and double-cross me, and besides he's getting paid plenty. My being on the Midorient board makes it watertight. I'm taken in the same as the rest of 'em, and I'm hit as hard as they are. You're doing all the buying and selling from now on—there won't be a single deal in my name that anyone can prove against me. And whatever happens, don't sell till I give you the wire. I'll be the first to know when the crash is coming, and we'll hold out till the last moment.'
They talked for an hour longer, after which they went out to a belated but celebratory lunch. Mr. Oates left his office early that afternoon, and therefore he did not even think of the movements of his new secretary when she went home. But if he had been privileged to ob serve them, he would have been very little wiser; for Mr. Oates was one of the numerous people who knew the Saint only by name, and if he had seen the sinewy sunburned young man who met her at Piccadilly Circus and bore her off for a cocktail he might have suffered a pang of jealousy, but he would have had no cause for alarm.
'We must have an Old Fashioned, Pat,' said the Saint, when they were settled in Oddenino's. 'The occasion calls for one. There's a wicked look in your eye that tells me you have some news. Have you sown a few more wild Oates?'
'Must you?' she protested weakly.
'Shall we get him an owl?' Simon suggested.
'What for?' asked Patricia unguardedly.
'It would be rather nice,' said the Saint reflectively, 'to get Titus an owl.'
Patricia Holm shuddered.
Over the cocktails and stuffed olives, however, she relented.
'It's started,' she said. 'Hammel and Costello had a long conference with him this morning. I suppose they finished it after lunch, but I'd heard enough before they went out.'
She told him every detail of the discussion that had taken place in Mr. Titus Oates's private office, and Simon Templar smiled approvingly as he listened. Taken in conjunction with what he already knew, the summaries of various other conversations which she had reported to him, it left him with the whole structure of the conspiracy clearly catalogued in his mind.
'You must remember to take that microphone out of his office first thing in the morning,' he remarked. 'It might spoil things if Titus came across it, and I don't think you'll need to listen any more. . . . Here, where did you get that from?'
'From sowing my wild Oates,' said Patricia angelically, as the waitress departed with a five-pound note on her tray.
Simon Templar regarded her admiringly.
'Darling,' he said at length, 'there are no limits to your virtues. If you're as rich as that, you can not only buy me another Old Fashioned but you can take me to dinner at the Barcelona as well.'
