'What's your opinion, Mr. Templar?' asked Yearleigh. 'Don't you think Maurice is talking like one of these damned street-corner Reds ?' The Saint nodded.
'Yes, I do,' he said. There was a moment's silence; and then he added thoughtfully: 'I rather like these street-corner Reds—one or two of them are really sincere.'
Chief Inspector Teal nibbled a crust of bread secure in his voluntary self-effacement, while Mrs. Ormer made some twittering remark and the thread of conversation drifted off into a less dangerously controversial topic. He had, he admitted, failed dismally in his little solitaire game of spotting the prospective murderer. A Cabinet Minister, a multi-millionaire, and a poet did not seem to comprise a gathering amongst whom a practical detective could seek hopefully for felons. The only suspect left for him was still the Saint; and yet even when the meal was finished, after the ladies had retired and the port and cigars had been passed around, he had no reason, actual or intuitive, to believe that Simon Templar was meditating the murder of his host.
Yearleigh rose, and there was a general pushing back of chairs. The noble sportsman caught the detective's eye; and for the first time since Teal's arrival the object of his invitation was brought up again.
'I've had another of those damned letters,' he said.
He produced it from his pocket, and held it out in a movement that was a general announcement that anyone who cared to might peruse it. Vould and the Saint, who were nearest, shared it with Mr. Teal.—
The message contained two lines in laboured script.
There was no signature — not even the skeleton haloed figure which Teal had half expected to see.
The detective folded the letter and put it away in his wallet. His faded sleepy eyes turned back to his host.
'I'd like to have a talk with you later on, sir,' he said. 'I have some men in the village, and with your permission I'd like to post special guards.'
'Certainly,' agreed Yearleigh at once. 'Have your talk now. I'm sure the others will excuse us. ... Wait a moment, though.' He turned to Maurice Vould. 'You wanted to have a talk with me as well, didn't you?'
Vould nodded.
'But it can wait a few minutes,' he said; and both Teal and the Saint saw that his pale face was even paler, and the eyes behind his big glasses were bright with sudden strain.
'Why should it?' exclaimed Yearleigh good-humouredly. 'You modern young intellectuals are always in a hurry, and I promised you this talk three or four days ago. You should have had it sooner if I hadn't had to go away. Inspector Teal won't mind waiting, and I don't expect to be murdered for another half-hour.'
Simon fell in at Teal's side as they went down the hall, leaving the other two on their way to Yearleigh's study; and quite naturally the detective asked the question which was uppermost in his mind.
'Have you any more ideas?'
'I don't know,' was the Saint's unsatisfactory response. 'Who were you most interested in at dinner?'
'I was watching Vould,' Teal confessed.
'You would be,' said the Saint. 'I don't suppose you even noticed Lady Yearleigh.'
Teal did not answer; but he
