13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

'I beg your pardon, Sir Melvin—did you say ——'

'Yes, I did!' snarled Flager. 'You heard me all right. And after that, you can find out if that cyclist Johnson killed left any dependents. I want to do something for them. . . .'

His voice faded away, and the microphone slipped through his fingers. His secretary looked at him quickly, and saw that his eyes were closed and the hemispherical mound of his abdomen was rising and falling rhythmically.

Sir Melvin Flager was asleep again.

VII

The Uncritical Publisher

Even the strongest men have their weak moments.

Peter Quentin once wrote a book. Many young men do, but usually with more disastrous results. Moreover he did it without saying a word to anyone, which is perhaps even more uncommon; and even the Saint did not hear about it until after the crime had been committed.

'Next time you're thinking of being rude to me,' said Peter Quentin, on that night of revelation, 'please remember that you're talking to a budding novelist whose work has been compared to Dumas, Tolstoy, Conan Doyle, and others.'

Simon Templar choked over his beer.

'Only pansies bud,' he said severely. 'Novelists fester. Of course, it's possible to be both.'

'I mean it,'  insisted Peter seriously.  'I was keeping it quiet until I heard the verdict, and I had a letter from the publishers this morning.'

There was no mistaking his earnestness; and the Saint re­garded him with affectionate gloom. His vision of the future filled him with overwhelming pessimism. He had seen the fate of other young men—healthy, upright, sober young men of impeccable character—who had had books published. He had seen them tread the downhill path of pink shirts, velvet coats, long hair, quill pens, cocktail parties, and beards, un­til finally they sank into the awful limbos of Bloomsbury and were no longer visible to the naked eye. The prospect of such a doom for anyone like Peter Quentin, who had been with him in so many bigger and better crimes, cast a shadow of great melancholy across his spirits.

'Didn't Kathleen try to stop you?' he asked.

'Of course not,' said Peter proudly. 'She helped me. I owe——'

'—it all to her,' said the Saint cynically. 'All right. I know the line. But if you ever come out with 'My Work' within my hearing, I shall throw you under a bus . . . You'd better let me see this letter. And order me some more beer while I'm reading it—I need strength.'

He took the document with his fingertips, as if it were unclean, and opened it out on the bar. But after his first glance at the letter-head his twinkling blue eyes steadied abruptly, and he read the epistle through with more than ordinary interest.

Dear Sir,

We have now gone into your novel THE GAY AD­VENTURER, and our readers report that it is very enter­taining and ably written, with the verve of Dumas, the dramatic power of Tolstoy, and the ingenuity of Conan Doyle.

We shall therefore be delighted to set up same in best small pica type to form a volume of about 320 p.p., ma­chine on good antique paper, bind in red cloth with title in gold lettering, and put up in specially designed artistic wrapper, at cost to yourself of only ?300 (Three Hundred Pounds) and to publish same at our own expense in the United Kingdom at a net price of 5/- (Five Shillings); and believe it will form a most acceptable and popular volume which should command a wide sale.

We will further agree to send you on date of publica­tion twelve presentation copies, and to send copies for re­view to