On the way to the restaurant he bought an
'Midorient closed at 21,' he said. 'It looks as if we shall have to name a ward in our Old Age Home for Retired Burglars after Comrade Oates.'
'How much shall we make if we buy and sell with him?' asked the girl.
The Saint smiled.
'I'm afraid we should lose a lot of money,' he said. 'You see, Titus isn't going to sell.'
She stared at him, mystified; and he closed the menu and laughed at her silently.
'Did you by any chance hear Titus boasting about a stamp he bought for his collection last night?' he asked, and she nodded. 'Well, old darling, I'm the bird who sold it to him. I never thought I should sink to philatelism even in my dotage, but in this case it seemed the best way to work. Titus is already convinced that I'm the greatest stamp-sleuth in captivity, and when he hears about the twopenny blue Mauritius I've discovered for him he will be
Mr. Wallington Titus Oates was gloating fruitily over the closing prices on the Friday evening when his telephone bell rang.
He had reason to gloat. The news story provided by the cablegrams of Mr. Ischolskov had been so admirably worded that it had hit the front page of every afternoon edition the previous day; and a jumpy market had done the rest. The results exceeded his most optimistic estimates. On the Wednesday night Midorients had closed at 32, and dealings in the street had taken them up to 34. They opened on Thursday morning at 38, and went to 50 before noon. One lunch edition ran a special topical article on fortunes made in oil, the sun shone brilliantly, England declared for 537 for six wickets in the first Test, all the brokers and jobbers felt happy, and Midorients finally went to 61 at the close. Moreover, in the evening paper which Mr. Oates was reading there could not be found a breath of suspicion directed against the news which had caused the boom. The Midorient directors had issued a statement declaring that they were awaiting further details, that their manager on the spot was a reliable man not given to hysterical exaggerations, and that for the moment they were satisfied that prosperity had returned to an oil field which, they pointed out, had merely been suffering a temporary set-back. Mr. Gates had had much to do with the wording of the statement himself; and if it erred somewhat on the side of optimism, the error could not by any stretch of imagination have been described as criminal misrepresentation.
And when Mr. Oates picked up his receiver and heard what it had to say, his cup was filled to overflowing.
'I've got you that twopenny blue,' sad a voice which he recognised. 'It's a peach! It must be one of the most perfect specimens in existence—and it'll only cost you nine hundred quid.'
Mr. Oates gripped the receiver, and his eyes lighted up with the unearthly fire which illumines the stare of the collector when he sees a coveted trophy within his grasp. It was, in its way, a no less starkly primitive manifestation than the dilating nostrils of a bloodhound hot on the scent.
'Where is it?' barked Mr. Oates, in the baying voice of the same hound. 'When can I see it? Can you bring it round? Have you got it yourself? Where is it ?
'Well, that's the snag, Mr. Oates,' said the Saint apologetically. 'The owner won't let it go. He won't even let it out of his safe until it's paid for. He says he's got to have a cheque in his pocket before he'll let me take it away. He's a crotchety old bird, and I think he's afraid I might light a cigarette with it or something.'
Mr. Oates fairly quivered with suppressed emotion.
'Well, where does he live?' he yelped. 'I'll settle him. I'll go round and see him at once. What's his name? What's the address ?'
