brief setback cheated death for the hundredth time in its long duel with the Saint's guardian angel. For even as he straightened up again with the axe in his hands, about twenty feet of the passage plunged downwards with a heart-stopping crash in a wild swirl of flame, leaving nothing but a gaping chasm through which fire roared up in a fiendish fountain that sent him staggering back before its intolerable heat. The last chance of reaching that locked room was gone.
A great weariness fell on the Saint like a heavy blanket pressing him down. There was nothing more that he could do.
He dropped the battle-axe and stumbled falteringly down the blazing stairs. There was no more battle now to keep him going. It was sheer blind automatism rather than any conscious effort on his part that guided him through another inferno to come reeling out through the front door, an amazing tatterdemalion outcast from the jaws of hell, to fall on his hands and knees on the terrace outside. In a dim faraway manner he was aware of hands raising him; of a remembered voice, low and musical, close to his ear.
'I know you like warm climates, boy, but couldn't you have got along with a trip to Africa ?'
He smiled. Between him and Patricia there was no need for the things that other people would have had to say. They spoke their own language. Grimy, dishevelled, with his clothes blackened and singed and his eyes bloodshot and his body smarting from a dozen minor burns, the Saint smiled at her with all his old incomparable impudence.
'I was trying to economize,' he said. 'And now I shall probably catch my death of cold.'
Already the cool night air, flowing like nectar into his parched lungs, was beginning to revive him, and in a few minutes his superb resilience would do the rest. He reviewed his injuries more systematically, and realized that comparatively speaking he was almost miraculously unscathed.
The thing that had come nearest to downing him was the smoke and fumes of the fire; and the effects of that were dispersing themselves like magic now that he could breathe again without feeling as if he were inhaling molten ash.
He cocked an eye at the stolid country policeman who was holding his other arm.
'Do you have to be quite so professional, Reginald?' he murmured. 'It makes me feel nervous.'
The constable's hold relaxed reassuringly.
'I'd get along and see the doctor, sir, if I was you. He's in the lodge now with Lady Sangore.'
'Is that the old trout's name ? And I'll bet her husband is at least a general.' The Saint was starting to get his bearings, and his legs began to feel as if they belonged to him again. He searched for a cigarette. 'Thanks, but Lady Sangore can have him. I'd rather have a drink. I wonder if we could get any co-operation from the owner of this jolly little bonfire?'
'You mean Mr Fairweather, sir? That's him, coming along now.'
While Simon had been inside the house, a number of other people had arrived on the scene, and another policeman and a sergeant were loudly ordering them to stand back. Paying no attention to this whatever, they swarmed excitedly round the Saint, all talking at once and completely frustrating the fat little Mr Fairweather, who seemed to be trying to make a speech. The voice of the general rose above the confused jabber like a foghorn.
'A fine effort, young man. A splendid effort, by Gad 1 But you shouldn't have tried it.'
'Tell the band to strike up a tune,' said the Saint shortly. 'Did anybody find a ladder?'
With his strength rapidly coming back, he still fought against admitting defeat. His face was hard and
