'What's the matter?'
Orace's fierce eyes stared at him brightly, while he clutched his chest with one rough hand; and Simon saw that the breast of his shirt was red with blood. The man's voice came with a hoarse effort.
'Ain't nothink. Look out . . .'
'Well, let's have a look at you, old son——'
The other pushed him away with a sudden access of strength. Orace's head was turned towards the half-closed door at the forward end of the saloon, and his jaw was clamped up under the pelmet of his moustache with the same savage doggedness that had been carved into it when Simon had seen him making that heroic fight to get himself up from the floor. And at the same moment, beyond the communicating door, Simon heard the faint click of a latch and the creak of a board under a stealthy foot ...
A slight dreamy smile edged itself on to the Saint's mouth as he stooped in swift silence to recover his stanchion. Clubbed in his left hand, an eighteen-inch length of slender iron, it formed a weapon that was capable of impressing the toughest skull with a sense of painful inferiority; and the thought that the sportsman who had turned his cabin upside down and done an unascertained amount of damage to Orace was still on board, and might come within reach of a shrewd smack on the side of the head, brought a comforting warmth of grim contentment into his veins.
'Steady, me lad. We must get this coat off to see what the trouble is ... I never thought you'd go and hit the bottle directly I was out of sight, Orace. And I suppose the cap blew off the ginger ale when you weren't looking . . . There we are. Now if we just change the cut of this beautiful shirt of yours ...'
He burbled on, as if he were still attending to the patient, while he picked his way soundlessly over the littered floor. His eyes were fixed on the door into the galley, and they were not smiling.
And then he stopped.
He stopped because the half-open door had suddenly jerked wide open. Beyond it, the further end of the alleyway was in darkness; but in the shadowy space between the light of the saloon and the darkness beyond he could see the black configuration of a man, and the gun in the man's hand was held well forward so that the light of the saloon laid dull bluish gleams along the barrel.
'Don't come any closer,' said the shadow.
The Saint relaxed slowly, rising from the slight crouch to which his cautious advance had unconsciously reduced him. The man facing him seemed to be of medium height, square and thickset; his voice had a throaty accent which was unfamiliar.
'Hullo, old cockroach.' Simon greeted him in the gentlest of drawls, with the stanchion swinging loosely and rather speculatively in his hand. 'Come in and make yourself at home. Oh, but you have. Never mind. There's still some of the bulkhead you haven't pulled to pieces——'
'I'll finish that in a minute. Turn round.'
'You're sure you haven't any designs on me?'
'Turn round!'
The Saint turned with a shrug.
'I suppose you know what'll happen if your hand shakes with that gun of yours, brother,' he remarked. 'You might have an accident and hit me. There's something about your voice which makes me think you've been practising in a place where little things like that don't matter, but over here they're a bit fussy. Have you ever seen a man hanged, old dear? It does the most comic things to his face. Although probably your face is comic enough——'
'You can forget that stuff,' said the man behind him, coldly. 'Now just drop that thing you've got in your hand.'
'What, my little umbrella?'
'Yeah—whatever it is.'
The Saint bent down slowly and laid the stanchion on the floor, choosing the place for it carefully.
'Now take two steps forward.'
Simon measured the two paces, and stood still. His body was braced for the bullet which might conclude the interlude
