detective had taken so long to identify him.
'Congratulations, brother,' he murmured. 'A very pretty job of work. I suppose you're just practising tracking people down. Let's see—is there anything else I can give you to play with? . . . We used to have a couple of fairly well-preserved clues in the bathroom, but they slipped down the waste pipe last Saturday night——'
'Listen again, sucker,' the detective cut in grittily. 'You've had your gag, and the rest of the jokes are with me. If you play dumb, I'll soon slap it out of you. The best thing you can do is to come clean before I get rough. Understand?'
The Saint indicated that he understood. His eyes were still bright, his demeanour was as cool and debonair as it had always been; but a sense of ultimate defeat hung over him like a pall. Was this, then, the end of the adventure and the finish of the Saint? Was he destined after all to be ignominiously carted off to a cell at last, and left there like a caged tiger while on four continents the men who had feared his outlawry read of his downfall and gloated over their own salvation? He could not believe that it would end like that; but he realized that for the last few hours he had been playing a losing game. Yet there was not a hint of despair or weakness in his voice when he spoke again.
'You don't want much, do you?' he remarked gently.
'I want plenty with you,' Kestry shot back. 'Where's this guy Valcross?'
'I haven't the faintest idea,' said the Saint honestly.
Before he realized what was happening, Kestry's great fist had knotted, drawn back, and lashed out at bis face. The blow slammed him back against the door and left his brain rocking.
'Where do I find Valcross?'
'I don't know,' said the Saint, with splinters of steel glittering in his eyes. 'The last tune I saw him, he was occupying a private cage in the monkey house at the Bronx Zoo, disguised as a retired detective.'
Kestry's fist smacked out again with malignant force, and the Saint staggered and gripped the edge of the door for support.
'Where's Valcross?'
Simon shook his head mutely. There was no strength in his knees, and he felt dazed and giddy. He had never dreamed of being hit with such power.
Kestry's flinty eyes were fixed on him mercilessly.
'So you think you won't talk, eh?'
'I'm rather particular about whom I talk to, you big baboon,' said the Saint unsteadily. 'If this is your idea of playing at detectives, I don't wonder that you're a flop.'
Kestry's stare reddened.
'I've got you, anyhow,' he grated, and his fist swung round again and sent the Saint reeling against a bookcase.
He caught the Saint by his coat lapels with one vast hand and dragged him up again. As he did so, he seemed to notice for the first time that one of Simon's sleeves was hanging empty. He flung the coat off his right shoulder and saw the dull red of drying stains on his shirt.
'Where did you get that?' he barked.
'A louse bit me,' said the Saint. 'Now I come to think of it, he must have been a relation of yours.'
Kestry grabbed his wrist and twisted the arm up adroitly behind his back. The strength of the detective's hands was terrific. A white-hot blaze of pure agony went through the Saint's injured shoulder, and a kind of mist swam across his eyes. He knew that he could not hold up much longer, even though he had nothing to tell. But the medieval methods of the third degree would batter and torture him into unconsciousness before they were satisfied with the consolidation of their status as the spiritual heirs of Sherlock Holmes.
And then, through the hammering of many waters that seemed to be deadening his ears, he heard the single sharp ring of a bell, and the racking of his arm eased.
'See who it is, Dan,' ordered Kestry.
Bonacci nodded and went out. Kestry kept his grip on the Saint's arm, ready to renew his private entertainment as soon as the
