be boy scouts. I gather that you think I wouldn't be content with one hundred bucks a week?'
'You?' Murdoch was viciously derisive. 'If I thought that, I'd buy you out right now.'
'Where's your money?'
'What for?'
'To buy me out. One hundred dollars a week—and that's more than I thought I was going to get out of it.'
The other stared at him.
'Are you telling me you'll take a hundred a week to get out?'
'Oh, no. But I'll take a hundred a week to get in. You'll have the benefit of all my brains, which you obviously need pretty badly; and I shall get lots of quiet respectable fun and a beautiful glow of virtue to keep me warm for the winter. I'm trying to convince you that I'm a reformed character. Your loving sympathy has made me see the light,' said the Saint brokenly, 'and from now on my only object will be to live down my evil past——'
'And I'm trying to convince you that I'm not so dumb that a twister like you can sell me a gold brick!' Murdoch snarled violently. 'You came into this by accident, and you saw your chance. You greased around Loretta till she told you what it was about, and you've made her so crazy she's ready to eat outa your hand. If I hadn't come along you'd of played her for a sap as long as it helped you, and ditched her when you thought you had a chance to get away with something. Well, you bet you're going to get out. I'm going to find a way to put you out—but it ain't going to be with a hundred dollars!'
The Saint rounded his lips and blew out a smoke-ring. For a moment he did actually consider the possibilities of trying to convince Murdoch of his sincerity; but he gave up the idea. The American's suspicions were rooted in too stubborn an antagonism for any amount of argument to shake them; and Simon had to admit that Murdoch had some logical justification. He looked at Murdoch thoughtfully for a while, and read the blunt facts of the situation on every line of the other's grim hard-boiled face. Oh, well . . . perhaps it was all for the best. And that incorrigible imp of buffoonery in his make-up would have made it difficult to carry the argument to conviction, anyway . . .
The Saint sighed.
'I suppose you're entitled to your point of view, Steve,' he conceded mildly. 'But of course that makes quite a difference. Now we shall have to decide what we're going to do with you.'
'Don't worry about me,' retorted Murdoch. 'You worry about yourself. Give me my clothes back, and I'll be on my way.'
He dumped his glass on the table and stood up; but Simon Templar did not move.
'The question is—will you?' said the Saint.
His voice was pleasant and conversational, coloured only with the merest echo of that serene and gentle mockery which had got under Murdoch's toughened hide at their first encounter; and yet something behind it made the other stand momentarily very still.
Murdoch's chunky fists knotted up slowly at his sides, and he scowled down at the slim languid figure stretched out on the settee with his eyes slotting down to glittering crevices in the rough-hewn crag of his face.
'Meaning what?' he demanded grittily.
'I'm not so thrilled with your promise to put me out,' said the Saint. 'And I don't know that we can let you go on getting into trouble indefinitely. Twice is all right, but the third time might be unlucky. I may be a boy scout, but I'm not a nursemaid. One way and another, Steve, it looks as if we may have to shut you up where you won't be able to get into mischief for a while.'
2
Murdoch hunched over him as if he couldn't believe his ears. There was stark pugnacious incredulity oozing out of every pore of him; and his jaw was levered up till his under lip jutted out in a bellicose ridge under his nose. His complexion had gone as red as a turkey-cock's.
'Say that again?'
'I said we may have to keep you where you won't get in the way,' answered the Saint calmly. 'Don't look so unhappy— there's another bottle of whisky on board,
