Prelude For War

'Where shall we go for our honeymoon?'

Simon nursed the car round a corner like an old lady wheeling her granddaughter's pram.

'Listen,' he said, 'I don't particularly care where you go for our honeymoon so long as it's no place where I'm going. If you have any sense, which is getting more-doubtful every minute, you'll travel like smoke for the next few days and put the biggest distance you can between yourself and London; and you won't send your friends any picture post-cards on the way to let them know where you are.'

Her lips trembled slightly.

'I see,' she said. 'You . . . you've had all you want from me, and now you just want to get rid of me. Well, I've been too clever for you this time. I'm not going to be got rid of.'

'Do you want to die young?' demanded the Saint exas­peratedly. 'Don't you see that I'm going to be much too busy to look after you ? For Pete's sake, have a little sense. I'll let you off at Southampton, where there are lots of boats going to nice places like New Zealand and so forth.'

'And what are you going to do after you've ditched me ?' she asked sulkily. 'I suppose you'll go dashing back to your blonde girl friend and tell her how clever you are.'

'I don't have to tell her,' said the Saint. 'She knows.'

'Well, you're not as clever as all that,' flared the girl in open mutiny. 'You heard what I told those two police­men. You didn't deny it then—anything was all right with you so long as it helped you to get away. You—you signed your name to it. And I won't be ditched. If you try to get rid of me now I—I'll sue you for breach of promise!'

Simon steadied himself. Now that the impending thun­derstorm had broken, exactly as he had been nerving him­self for it, he almost felt better.

'No jury would give you a farthing damages, sweet­heart,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, they'd probably give me a reward for letting you out of an agreement to marry me.'

'Oh, would they? Well, we'll see. It's all very well for you to go around breaking thousands of hearts and pushing around all the women you meet like a little Hitler bossing his tame dummies in the Reichstag——'

The car rocked with a force that flung her away from him.

The Saint straightened it up again anyhow. He let go the wheel and thumped his fists on it like a lunatic.

He yodelled. His face was transfigured.

'My God,' he yelled, 'how did you think of it? Of course that's what it was. That's the answer. The Reichstag!'

She gaped at him, rubbing a bruised elbow where it had hit the door in that wild swerve.

'What's the matter?' she asked blankly. 'Have you gone pots or something?'

'The Reichstag!' he whooped deliriously. 'Don't you see? That's what Kennet wrote on that bit of paper. REMEMBER THE REICHSTAG!'

He was so dazed with understanding that he had not noticed a big black Packard which had crept up behind them, was hardly aware when it pulled out in the narrow road and raced level with the crawling Daimler. Almost unconsciously he swung in to let it pass.

Lady Valerie looked back over her shoulder and sud­denly screamed. With a