on the brakes and brought the car to a lurching halt. Then he snapped off the headlights, -leaving only the bright glow of the parking lights to illuminate the scene.
A good enough spot for a murder, the Saint was forced to admit; and he wondered how many other men had dared the vengeance of Dutch Kuhlmann and the Big Fellow, only to pay for their temerity in that lonely place. With the switching off of the purring engine all sound seemed to have been blotted out of the night, as if the world had been folded under a dense pack of wool; even the distant hum of other cars away back on the highway they had left, if there were any, was inaudible. As far as the Saint could see, there was nothing around them but a wilderness of trees and shrubbery scattered over an undulating stony common; a man could die there with no sound that the world would ever hear, and his body might lie there for weeks before some chance passer-by stumbled on it and sent a new blare of headlines screaming across the front pages. Suddenly the Saint guessed why he had been taken so far, with such precautions, instead of simply being pushed out on any New York street and riddled with bullets as the car drove away. It had been sufficient often enough for other victims; but this case was different. The handling of it linked up with certain things that Orcread and Yeald had discussed. The Saint was not to become a martyr or even a sensation: he was to disappear, as swiftly and unaccountably as he had come, like a comet—all questions could go unanswered perhaps for ever, and the fickle public would soon forget. . . .
Something creaked at the back of the car, breaking the stillness; and Maxie roused himself. He climbed out unhurriedly and turned round again as soon as he was outside, his automatic glinting dully in the subdued light. He jerked it at the Saint expressively.
'Out, buddy.'
Behind the Saint, Joe's gun added its subtle pressure to the command.
Simon pulled himself up slowly. Now that the climax of the ride was reached, he had ceased speculating upon the reactions of a doomed man. Every cell in his keen brain, every nerve and fibre of his body, was dynamically alive and watchful. His mind had never worked more clearly and smoothly, his body had never been keyed to a more perfect pitch of physical fitness, than they were at that moment in the deepening shadow of death. It was impossible to think that in a few brief moments, with one inconceivably numbing, crashing shock, that vibrant, pulsing life could be stilled, the brilliant mind dulled for ever, the play and delight of sensual experience and the sweet awareness of life swallowed up in a black nothingness from which there was no return.
He stepped down gradually to the running board. A yard from him, Maxie's automatic was levelled steadily at his chest; behind him, Joe's gun pushed no less steadily into his back. The wild thought crossed his mind that he might launch himself onto Maxie from the running board in a desperate smothering leap, trusting to the surprise to bowl him over before he could shoot, and to the beneficent darkness to take care of the rest. But in the next instant he knew that there was no hope there. In spite of his outward stolidity, Maxie was watching him like a cat; and he had measured his distance perfectly. To have jumped then would have been to jump squarely into a bullet, and Joe would probably have got him from behind at the same time.
With a face of iron the Saint lowered himself to the ground and straightened up, but his eyes met Maxie's calmly enough.
'Is this as far as we go?' he inquired.
'You said it,' Maxie assented curtly.
Behind him, Simon could hear the crunch of Joe's brogans on the soil as the other gunman followed him out, and the brusque click of the door closing again. The weight of the gun muzzle touched his back again. He was gripped between two potential fires as securely as if he had been held in a pair of tangible forceps; and for the second time that icy qualm of doubt squirmed clammily in the pit of his stomach. In every movement that was made there was a practised confidence, an unblinking vigilance, such as he had never encountered before. No other two men he had ever met could have held him in the car so long, talking to him and lighting his cigarettes, without giving him a moment's chance to take them off their guard. No other two men that he could think of could have manoeuvred him in and out of it without offering at least one even toss-up on a break for freedom. He had always known, at the back of his mind, that one day he must meet his match— that sometime, somewhere, the luck which had followed him so faithfully throughout his career must turn against him, as it does in the life of every gambler and adventurer who refuses to acknowledge any limits. But he had not thought that it would happen there—just as no man ever believes that he will die tomorrow, although he knows that there must come a to morrow when he will die. ... A thin shadow of the old Saintly smile touched his lips and did not reach his eyes.
'I hope you're going to do this with all the regular formalities,' he said gently. 'You know, I've often
