and the bullet spilled a shower of plaster from the wall a yard over the Saint's head. Simon grinned and swung his legs over the banisters. Curiously enough, the average gangster has standards of marksmanship that would make the old-time bad man weep in his grave: most of his pistol practice is done from a range of not more than three feet, and for any greater distances than that he gets out his sub-machine-gun and sprays a couple of thousand rounds over the surrounding county on the assumption that one of them must hit something. The opposition was dangerous, but it was not certain death. One of the men poked an eye warily round the door of the bar and leapt back hurriedly as the Saint's shot splintered the frame an inch from his nose; and the Saint let go the handrail and dropped down to the floor like a cat.
The front door was open, as the men had left it when they rushed back into the house. Simon made a rapid calculation. There were four men left, so far as he knew; and of their number one was certainly watching the windows at the back, and another was probably guarding the parked cars. That left two to be taken on the way; and the time to take them was at once, while their morale was still shaken by the divers preposterous calamities that they had seen.
He put the girl down and turned her towards the doorway. She was moaning a little now, but fear would lend wings to her feet
'Run!' he shouted suddenly. 'Run for the door!'
Her shrill voice crying out in terror, the child fled. A man sprang up from his knees behind the hangings in the dance-room entrance; Simon fired once, and he went down with a yell. Another bullet from the Saint's gun went crashing down a row of bottles in the bar; then he was outside, hurdling the porch rail and landing nimbly on his toes. He could see the girl's white dress flying through the darkness in front of him. A man rose up out of the gloom ahead of her and lunged, and she screamed once as his outstretched fingers clawed at her frock. Simon's gun belched flame, and the clutching hand fell limp as a soft-nosed slug tore through the fleshy part of the man's forearm. The gorilla spun round and dropped his gun, bellowing like a bull, and Simon sprinted after the terrified child. An automatic banged twice behind him, but the shots went wide. The girl shrieked as he came up with her, but he caught her into his left arm and held her close.
'All right, kiddo,' he said gently. 'It's all over. Now we're going home.'
He ducked in between the parked cars. He already knew that the one in which he had arrived was locked: if Ualino's car was also locked there would still be difficulties. He threw open the door and sighed his relief—the key was in its socket. What was it Fernack had said? 'He rides around in an armoured sedan.' Morrie Ualino seemed to have been a thoughtful bird all round, and the Saint was smiling appreciatively as he climbed in.
A scattered fusillade drummed on the coachwork as he swung the car through a tight arc in reverse, and the bulletproof glass starred but did not break. As the car lurched forward again he actually slowed up to wind down an inch of window.
'So long, boys,' he called back. 'Thanks for the ride!' And then the car was swinging out into the road, whirling away into the night with a smooth rush of power, with the horn hooting a derisively syncopated farewell into the wind,
Simon stopped the car a block from Sutton Place and looked down at the sleepy figure beside him.
'Do you know your way home from here?' he asked her.
She nodded vigorously. Her hysterical sobbing had stopped long ago—in a few days she would scarcely remember.
He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and made a little drawing on it. It was a skeleton figure adorned with a large and rakishly slanted halo.
'Give this to your daddy,' he said, 'and tell him the Saint brought you home. Do you understand? The Saint brought you back.'
She nodded again, and he crumpled the paper into her tiny fist and opened the door. The last he saw of her was her white-frocked shape trotting round the next corner; and then he let in the clutch and drove on. Fifteen minutes later he was back at the Waldorf Astoria, and Morrie Ualino's armour-plated sedan was abandoned six blocks away.
Valcross in pyjamas and dressing gown, was dozing in the living room. He roused to find the Saint smiling down at him a little tiredly, but in complete contentment.
'Viola Inselheim is home,' said the Saint. 'I went for a lovely ride.'
He was wiping the blade of his knife on a silk handkerchief; and Valcross looked at him curiously.
'Did you meet Ualino?' he asked; and Simon Templar nodded.
