The third member of the party was a big, raw-boned, heavy-jowled man whom Simon recognised without difficulty as his last opponent in the exchange of pleasantries that had started the picnic. He looked easily the least damaged of the trio; but the Saint knew that he would be carrying a souvenir of Mr Uniatz' Betsy on the back of his head that would have been highly misleading to a phrenologist.
'Pleased to know you,' Lauber said heartily; and as soon as he spoke Simon knew also that he was the man whose voice he had heard as he entered the house.
The Saint's eyes summed up the big man interestedly, without seeming to give him more attention than they gave everybody else. Certainly Lauber had been the last warrior to fling himself into the battle: he had been busily kneeling on Joris Vanlinden's chest until the shortage of other gladiators had forced him to take part in the festivities. And a slow squirm of delight began to crawl around Simon Templar's inside as some understanding of Lauber's amazing protestation started to sink into his brain.
'Mr Tombs,' Graner explained, 'is the friend that Felson wired us about.'
The others kept silence. They were grouped at the end of the table, with Lauber in the middle; and they stayed there without moving, as if they were still bent on keeping Lauber in a corner. Only their eyes turned to meet the Saint, and remained fixed on him with cold intentness. Even Lauber, whose solitary answering welcome hinted that it had been prompted more by relief at the temporary diversion than by any natural cordiality, relapsed into silence after that one remark, and stared at him with the same watchful expectancy. They were like a cage of wild animals summing up a new trainer.
'Sit down,' said Graner.
Palermo extended his foot without shifting any of the rest of him, and pushed a chair towards the Saint. Graner took another chair. He deposited himself primly on the edge of it and crossed his legs-a movement which disclosed an expanse of brilliant blue silk sock above the top of his spats.
'Felson said very little about you.' Graner searched through his pockets and eventually encountered a telegraph form. He read it through, pulling his long upper lip. 'Didn't he give you a letter or anything?'
Simon shook his head. -- 'I didn't see him. He phoned me in London, and I left at once.'
'You got here very quickly.'
'I flew to Seville. I tried to phone Rodney in Madrid from there, but I couldn't get him. I couldn't wait to get hold of him because I had to catch the boat, and he'd told me it was urgent.'
'Didn't the boat get in this morning?' Graner's tone held no more than conventional interest.
The Saint nodded easily.
'I made some friends on board, and they wanted to go over to Orotava for a farewell lunch party. I didn't know it was so far away, and once I was over there I couldn't leave until they were ready to go. And they wanted a lot of shifting. Then I had to get fixed up at a hotel, and then we had to have dinner, and then we had to have some more drinks, and then I had to see them back to the boat --' He shrugged apologetically. 'You know how these parties go on. I suppose this is rather late to introduce myself, but I thought I'd better check in before I went to bed.'
Graner frowned.
'You went to a hotel?'
'Of course,' said the Saint innocently. 'It's a nice climate, but I didn't feel like sleeping under a tree.'
Graner gazed at him steadily for a few seconds without smiling.
'We will leave that for the moment,' he said at length. 'What is your experience?'
'I was fourteen years with Asscher's, in Amsterdam.'
'You look young for that.'
'I started very young.'
'Why did you leave?'
'They missed some stones,' answered the Saint, with a sly and significant grin.
'Were you ever in the hands of the police?'
'No. It was just suspicion.'
'What have you been doing since then?'
'Odd jobs, when I could get them.'
Reuben Graner took an apple-green silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket, folded it neatly, and fanned himself delicately with it. A whiff of expensive perfume crept into the air.
'Did Felson tell you what was expected of you?' he asked.
'I gathered that you want me to cut up some stones without being too inquisitive about where they came from.'
'That is more or less correct.'
The Saint settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
'As far as I'm concerned, it's a bet,' he remarked. 'But what about the strong-arm stuff?'
Graner's thin fingers drummed on the edge of the table.
'I don't understand you.'
'The sleeping-beauty chorus. The three little pigs.' Simon waved his hand in a lazy gesture of explanation. 'They look as if they'd been up to something rougher than cutting diamonds and doing a bit of knitting on the
