13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

'His name is Dr. Jethero,' Simon answered methodically, 'and he lives at 105 Matlock Gardens, Netting Hill. I think you'll catch him there—I've only just left him, and he said nothing about going out.'

'Dr. Jethero—105—Matlock—Gardens—Notting—Hill,' repeated Mr. Oates, reaching for a message pad and scribbling frantically.

'By the way,' said the Saint, 'I said he was crotchety, but you may think he's just potty. He's got some sort of a bee in his bonnet about people trying to get in and steal his stamp, and he told me that if you want to call and see him you've got to give a password.'

'A password?' bleated Mr. Oates.

'Yes. I told him that everybody knew Titus Oates, but ap­parently that wasn't good enough for him. If you go there you've got to say 'I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate and from Newgate to Tyburn.' Can you remember that?'

'Of course,' said Mr. Oates indignantly. 'I know all about that. Titus Oates was an ancestor of mine. Come and see me in the morning, my dear boy—I'll have a present waiting for you. Good-bye.'

Mr. Oates slammed back the receiver and leapt up as if unleashed. Dithering with ecstasy and excitement, he stuffed his note of the address into his pocket, grabbed a cheque­book, and dashed out into the night.

The taxi ride to his destination seemed interminable, and when he got there he was in such a state of expectant rap­ture that he flung the driver a pound note and scurried up the steps without waiting for change. The house was one of those unwieldly Victorian edifices with which the west of London is encumbered against all hopes of modern develop­ment; and in the dim street lighting he did not notice that all the windows were barred, nor would he have been likely to speculate upon the reasons for that peculiar feature if he had noticed it.

The door was opened by a white-coated man, and Mr. Oates almost bowled him over as he dashed past him into the hall.

'I want Dr. Jethero,' he bayed. 'I'm Titus Oates!'

The man closed the door and looked at him curiously.

'Mr. Titus Oates, sir?'

'Yes!' roared the financier impatiently. 'Titus Oates. Tell him I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. And hurry up!'

The man nodded perfunctorily, and edged past him at a cautious distance of which Mr. Oates was too wrought up to see the implications.

'Yes, sir. Will you wait in here a moment, sir?'

Mr. Oates was ushered into a barely furnished distempered room and left there. With an effort he fussed himself down to a superficial calm—he was Titus Oates, a power in the City, and he must conduct himself accordingly. Dr. Jethero might misunderstand a blundering excitement. If he was crotchety, and perhaps even potty, he must be handled with tact. Mr. Oates strode up and down the room, working off his overflow of excitement. There was a faint characteristic flavour of iodoform in the air, but Mr. Oates did not even notice that.

Footsteps sounded along the hall, and the door opened again. This time it admitted a grey-bearded man who also wore a white coat. His keen spectacled eyes examined the financier calmly. Mr. Oates mustered all his self-control.

'I am Titus Oates,' he said with simple dignity.

The grey-bearded man nodded.

'You wanted to see me?' he said; and Mr. Oates recalled his instructions again.

'Titus Oates,' he repeated gravely. 'I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn.'

Dr. Jethero studied him for a moment longer, and glanced towards the door, where the white-coated attendant was wait­ing unobtrusively—Mr. Oates had not