16 The Saint Overboard

'So we'll have to provide our own miracle?'

'Anyway,' said the Saint, 'I don't like crowds. And I shouldn't want one now.'

He flicked his cigarette-end backwards through the porthole and turned towards her. She nodded.

'Neither should I,' she said.

She threw away her own cigarette and gave him both her bands. But she stayed up on her knees, as she had risen, listening to the sounds which had become audible outside. Then she looked out; and he pulled himself up beside her.

The Falkenberg was hove to, no more than a long stone's throw from the Casquet Rocks. The lighthouse, crowning the main islet like a medieval castle, a hundred feet above the water, was so close that he could see one of the lighthouse-keepers leaning over the battlements and looking down at them.

For a moment Simon was puzzled to guess the reason for the stop; and then the sharp clatter of an outboard motor starting up, clear above the dull vibration of the Falkenberg's idling engines, made him glance down towards the water, and he under­stood. The Falkenberg's dinghy had been lowered, and it was even then stuttering away towards the landing stage, manned by Otto Arnheim and three of the crew. As it drew away from the side the Falkenberg got under way again, sliding slowly through the water towards the south.

Simon turned away from the porthole, and Loretta's eyes met him.

'I suppose the lighthouse overlooks the wreck,' she said.

'I believe it does,' he answered, recalling the chart which he had studied the night before.

Neither of them spoke for a little while. The thought in both their minds needed no elaborating. The staff on the lighthouse might see too much—and that must be prevented. The Saint wondered how drastically the prevention would be done, and had a grim suspicion of the answer. It would be so easy for Arnheim, landing with his crew in the guise of an innocent tripper asking to be shown over the plant. . . .

Simon sat down again on the bunk. His lips were drawn hard and bitter with the knowledge of his helplessness. There was nothing that he could, do. But he would have liked, just once, to feel the clean smash of his fists on Vogel's cold sneering face. . . .

'I guess it's nearly time for my burglary,' he said. 'It's a grand climax to my career as a detective.'

She was leaning back, with her head on his shoulder. Her cheek was against his, and she held his hands to her breasts.

'So you signed on the dotted line, Simon,' she said softly.

'Didn't you always know I would?'

'I hoped you would.'

'It's been worth it.'

She turned her face a little. Presently she said: 'I told you I was afraid, once. Do you remember?'

'Are you afraid now?' he asked, and felt the shake of her head.

'Not now.'

He kissed her. Her lips were soft and surrendering against his. He held her face in his hands, touched her hair and her eyes, as he had done in the garden.

'Will you always remember me like this?' she said.

'Always.'

'I think they're coming.'

A key turned in the lock, and he stood up. Vogel came in first, with his right hand still in his side pocket, and two of his crew framed themselves in the doorway behind him. He bowed faintly to the saint, with his smooth face passive and expectant and the great hook of his nose thrust forward. If he was enjoying his triumph of scheming and counter-plot, the exultation was held in the same iron restraint as all his emotions. His black eyes re­mained cold and expressionless.

'Have you made up your mind?' he