'Is that what you've been taking up so much of my time about?' he asked wearily.
'But I've got an idea, Claud,' said the Saint, getting up and stretching himself. 'Come out and lunch with me, and let's give it a rest. You've been thinking for nearly an hour, and I don't want your brain to overheat. I know a new place— wait, I'll look up the address.'
He looked it up in the telephone directory; and Mr. Teal got up and took down his bowler hat from its peg. His baby blue eyes were inscrutably thoughtful, but he followed the Saint without thought. Whatever else the Saint wanted to say, however crazy he felt it must be, it was something he had to hear or else fret over for the rest of his days. They drove in a taxi to Knightsbridge, with Mr. Teal chewing phlegmatically, in a superb affectation of bored unconcern. Presently the taxi stopped, and Simon climbed out. He led the way into an apartment building and into a lift, saying something to the operator which Teal did not catch.
'What is this?' he asked, as they shot upwards. 'A new restaurant?'
'It's a new place,' said the Saint vaguely.
The elevator stopped, and they got out. They went along the corridor, and Simon rang the bell of one of the doors. It was opened by a goodlooking maid who might have been other things in her spare time.
'Scotland Yard,' said the Saint brazenly, and squeezed past her. He found his way into the sitting-room before anyone could stop him: Chief Inspector Teal, recovering from the momentary paralysis of the shock, followed him: then came the maid.
'I'm sorry, sir—Mr. Costello is out.'
Teal's bulk obscured her. All the boredom had smudged itself off his face, giving place to blank amazement and anger.
'What the devil's this joke?' he blared.
'It isn't a joke, Claud,' said the Saint recklessly. 'I just wanted to see if I could find something—you know what we were talking about——'
His keen gaze was quartering the room; and then it lighted on a big cheap kneehole desk whose well-worn shabbiness looked strangely out of keeping with the other furniture. On it was a litter of coils and wire and ebonite and dials—all the junk out of which amateur wireless sets are created. Simon reached the desk in his next stride, and began pulling open the drawers. Tools of all kinds, various gauges of wire and screws, odd wheels and sleeves and bolts and scraps of sheet-iron and brass, the completely typical hoard of any amateur mechanic's workshop. Then he came to a drawer that was locked. Without hesitation he caught up a large screwdriver and rammed it in above the lock: before anyone could grasp his intentions he had splintered the drawer open with a skilful twist.
Teal let out a shout and started across the room. Simon's hand dived into the drawer, came out with a nickel-plated revolver—it was exactly the same as the one with which Lewis Enstone had shot himself, but Teal wasn't noticing things like that. His impression was that the Saint really had gone raving mad after all, and the sight of the gun pulled him up for a moment as the sight of a gun in the hands of any other raving maniac would have pulled him up.
'Put that down, you fool!' he yelled, and then he let out another shout as he saw the Saint turn the muzzle of the gun close up to his right eye, with his thumb on the trigger, exactly as Enstone must have held it. Teal lurched forward and knocked the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm; then he grabbed Simon by the wrist. 'That's enough of that,' he said, without realising what a futile thing it was to say.
Simon looked at him and smiled.
'Thanks for saving my life, old beetroot,' he murmured kindly. 'But it really wasn't necessary. You see, Claud, that's the gun Enstone
The maid was under the table letting out the opening note of a magnificent fit of hysterics. Teal let go the Saint, hauled her out, and shook her till she was quiet. There were more events cascading on him in those few seconds than he knew how to cope with, and he was not gentle.
'It's all right, miss,' he growled. 'I am from Scotland Yard. Just sit down somewhere, will
