steps. Dumaire followed him. Their faces, like Pietri's, looked scoured and tender; and they also kept their hats on. Bravache raised his hand perfunctorily as the British Nazi came to attention and gave a full Fascist salute.
'The prisoners?' he said curtly.
'This way, Major.'
The young British Nazi led the way briskly through the kitchen, opened the scullery door and switched on the light. Lady Valerie stirred and gave a little moan as the sudden blaze stabbed her eyes. Bravache bowed to her with punctilious mockery, his lips parting in the unhumorous wolfish smile that Simon remembered.
'Much as I regret to disturb you, mademoiselle, your presence is required at the headquarters of the Sons of France.'
Dumaire came past him and kicked Simon savagely in the ribs. Then he bent over, grinning like a rat, and lightly touched the dried bloodstains on Simon's cheeks.
'Blood is a better colouring than paint,' he said.
He closed his fist and hit Simon twice in the face.
'Bleed, pig,' he said. 'I like the colour of your blood.'
'It is red, at any rate,' said the Saint unflinchingly. 'Yours would be yellow.'
Dumaire kicked him again; and then Bravache pushed him aside.
'Enough of that,' he said. 'We have no time to waste now. But there will be plenty of time later. And then I shall enjoy a little conversation with Mr Templar myself. We have several things to talk over.'
'You must let me give you the address of my barber,' said the Saint affably.
Bravache did not strike him or make any movement. His cold fishy eyes simply rested on the Saint unwinkingly, while his teeth glistened between his back-drawn lips. And in the duration of that glance Simon knew that all the mercy he could expect from Bravache was more to be feared than any vengeance that Dumaire could conceive.
Then Bravache turned and flicked his fingers at the British Nazi and Dumaire, and at Pietri who had followed him to the door.
'Bring them out,' he ordered briefly. 'We must be going.'
He went back to the hall, and as he arrived there he saw; a door move. He went over to it and pushed it wide, and found General Sangore standing just inside the library beyond it, like an eavesdropper caught at the keyhole, with a large glass of whiskey clutched in one hand.
'My apologies for troubling you, General,' Bravache said with staccato geniality in which there was the faint echo of a sneer. 'But I'm afraid we shall need you to guide us to the place where our aeroplane is to meet us. I was told to ask for 'the long meadow'—Mr Luker said you would know it. He also said that you wished to avoid being seen by the prisoners. That will be easily arranged. They will be in the back of the Packard, and if you put on a hat and turn up your coat collar they will not recognize you in the darkness. Personally I should call it a needless precaution. By this time tomorrow the Saint and all his associates will be beyond causing you any anxiety.'
'All ?' Sangore repeated stupidly.
He gulped at his drink. He still seemed to be in the same daze that he had been in when he left Luker's house. For perhaps the first time in twenty years the rich cerise and magenta tints of his complexion looked gray and faded.
Bravache nodded, drawing his gloves up tighter on his hands. His swaggering erectness, the cold confident glitter of his eyes, the
