libel action, the author, printer, and publisher are joint tort-feasors, and none of them can indemnify the other. Ask your solicitor. As a matter of fact,' he added prophetically, 'I don't expect I shall be able to recover anything from the author, anyway. Authors are usually broke. But you are both the printer and publisher, and I'm sure I can collect from you.'
Mr. Parstone stared at him with blanched lips.
'But fifty thousad pouds is ibpossible,' he whined. 'It would ruid be!'
'That's what I mean to do, dear old bird,' said the Saint gently. 'You've gone on swindling a lot of harmless idiots for too long already, and now I want you to see what it feels like when it happens to you.'
He stood up, and collected his hat.
'I'll leave you the book,' he said, 'in case you want to entertain yourself some more. But I've got another copy; and if I don't receive your cheque by the first post on Friday morning it will go straight to my solicitors. And you can't
For a long time after he had gone Mr. Herbert Parstone sat quivering in his chair. And then he reached out for the book and began to skim through its pages. And with every page his livid face went greyer. There was no doubt about it. Simon Templar had spoken the truth. The book was the most monumental libel that could ever have found its way into print. Parstone's brain reeled before the accumulation of calumnies which it unfolded.
His furious ringing of the bell brought his secretary running.
'Fide me that proof-reader!' he howled. 'Fide be the dab fool who passed this book!' He flung the volume on to the floor at her feet. 'Sed hib to be at wuds! I'll show bib. I'll bake hib suffer. By God, I'll——'
The other things that Mr. Parstone said he would do cannot be recorded in such a respectable publication as this.
His secretary picked up the book and looked at the title.
'Mr. Timmins left yesterday—he was the man you fired four months ago,' she said; but even then Mr. Parstone was no wiser.
VIII
The Noble Sportsman
It would be difficult to imagine two more ill-assorted guests at a country house party than Simon Templar and Chief Inspector Teal. The Saint, of course, was in his element. He roared up the drive in his big cream and red sports car and a huge camel- hair coat as if he had been doing that sort of thing for half his life, which he had. But Mr. Teal, driving up in the ancient and rickety station taxi, and alighting cumbrously in his neat serge suit and bowler hat, fitted less successfully into the picture. He looked more like a builder's foreman who had called to take measurements for a new bathroom, which he was not.
But that they should have been members of the same house party at all was the most outstanding freak of circumstance; and it was only natural that one of them should take the first possible opportunity to inquire into the motives of the other.
Mr. Teal came into the Saint's room while Simon was dressing for dinner, and the Saint looked him over with some awe.
'I see you've got a new tie,' he murmured. 'Did your old one come undone?'
The detective ran a finger round the inside of his collar, which fitted as if he had bought it when he was several years younger and measured less than eighteen inches around the neck.
'How long have you known Lord Yearleigh?' he asked bluntly.
'I've met him a few times,' said the Saint casually.
He
