a slow-moving dray obstructed their passage. He bounced up and down on the seat, pulled off his hat, pulled out his watch, looked at his hat, tried to put on his watch, mopped his brow, craned his head out of the window, bounced, sputtered, gasped, and sweated in an anguish of impatience that brought him to the verge of delirium. When at last they arrived at the lodging-house in Bayswater which was his destination, he fairly hurled himself out of the cab, hauled out a handful of silver with clumsy hands, spilt some of it into the driver's palm and most of it into the street, stumbled cursing up the steps, and plunged into the bell with a violence which almost drove it solidly through the wall. While he waited, fuming, he dragged out his watch again, dropped it, tried to grab it, missed, and kicked it savagely into the middle of the street with a shrill squeal of sheer insanity; and then the door opened and a maid was inspecting him curiously.
'Is Mr. Penwick in?' he blurted.
'I think so,' said the maid. 'Will you come in?'
The invitation was unnecessary. Breathing like a man who had just run a mile without training, Mr. Willie Kinsall ploughed past her, and kicked his heels in a torment of suspense until the door of the room into which he had been ushered opened, and a tall man came in.
It seems superfluous to explain that this man's name was not really Penwick; and Willie Kinsall did not even stop to consider the point. He did look something like a solicitor of about forty, which is some indication of what Simon Templar could achieve with a black suit, a wing collar and bow tie, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, and some powder brushed into his hair.
Willie Kinsall did not even pause to frame a diplomatic line of approach.
'Where,' he demanded shakily, 'is this will, you crook?'
'Mr. Penwick' raised his grey eyebrows.
'I don't think I have—ah—had the pleasure——'
'My name's Kinsall,' said Willie, skipping about like a grasshopper on a hot plate. 'And I want that will—the will you're trying to sell to my dirty swindling brother. And if I don't get it, I'm going straight to the police!'
The solicitor put his finger-tips together.
'What proof have you, Mr.—ah—Kinsall,' he inquired gently, 'of the existence of this will?'
Willie stopped skipping for a moment. And then, with a painful wrench, he flung bluff to the winds. He had no proof, and he knew it.
'All right,' he said. 'I won't go to the police. I'll buy it What do you want?'
Simon pursed his lips.
'I doubt,' he said, 'whether the will is any longer for sale. Mr. Walter's cheque is already in my bank, and I am only waiting for it to be cleared before handing the document over to him.'
'Nonsense!' yelped Willie, but he used a much coarser word for it. 'Walter hasn't got it yet. I'll give you as much as he gave—and you won't have to return his money. He wouldn't dare go into court and say what he gave it to you for.'
The Saint shook his head.
'I don't think,' he said virtuously, 'that I would break my bargain for less than twenty thousand pounds.'
'You're a thief and a crook!' howled Willie.
'So are you,' answered the temporary Mr. Penwick mildly. 'By the way, this payment had better be in cash. You can go round to your bank and get it right away. I don't like to have to insist on this, but
