time to choose.
And yet he didn't want to take that suicidal vengeance while there was still even a spider thread of hope.
He said to the room at large: 'Which is the way out of here?'
Nobody had time to answer, even if anyone had decided to.
Colonel Marteau stood up.
'Anyone who tells him,' he stated harshly, 'is a coward and a traitor.'
'Will you set the example?' asked the Saint silkily. 'Or would you rather be a dead hero ?'
'I shall not tell you.'
Simon knew that he had lost an infinitesimal point, but his face gave it no acknowledgment. The steel hardened in his eyes.
'Maybe we can change your mind for you,' he said, without a flicker of apprehension in his voice. 'Valerie, slip round behind these guys and bring me their guns.'
He did not hear any movement.
'Go on,' he rapped.
'But how can I?'
'If you try it, I think you'll be able to twist your hands round enough.'
But he had lost another point. Those few words between them must only make plainer the ultimate hopelessness of his position. And with every point lost the score was creeping up against him with frightful speed. He would fight every inch of the way with the stubbornness of despair, but he knew in his heart that the battle could only end one way. If he could have made one of the men tell him the way out at once, they might have made a dash for it with a faint sporting chance of shooting their way through; but that had always been a far-fetched hope. They would never be made to talk so easily. And every delay was on their side. Sooner or later their confidence would return. It could only be a matter of seconds now. It was already returning. Sooner or later, with the eyes of his commandant upon him and his brain swimming with dreams of glory, one Son of France would screw up his nerve to the crucial fatal heroism that would point the way to a swift inevitable ending. . . .
Valerie had moved round on the Saint's left. She was beside the nearest Son of France, twisting her hands round to reach the revolver in his holster.
Simon's eyes raked the man's face. Was this the one who would first find the courage to take his chance ? If not, with two guns instead of one in the Saint's hands, the odds might be altered again. Or would it be one of the others? Other faces loomed on the outskirts of the Saint's vision. Which of them had the courage to call for a showdown? And then a door opened stealthily on the Saint's right. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye at the same time as the soft sound reached his ears; and irresistibly he turned partly towards it. The muzzle of his revolver turned with him. He saw a tall scrawny figure, a vacant idiot's face lighted by pale maniacal eyes, and knew at once where he had seen it before. It was the face and figure of the killer in Kennet's photograph; and it had an auto matic clutched in one bony hand.
And at that moment Lady Valerie cried out, and the Saint knew what must have happened in the fractional instant while his vigilance was drawn away. He fired before he turned.
He knew that his shot scored, but he could not be certain where. A glimpse of the killer sagging in the middle flashed across his retina as he whirled to the left. Then he could see only the scene that was waiting for him there.
The Son of France whose gun Lady Valerie was trying to take had seized his chance while he had it, and made a grab at her, trying to throw her in front of him to shield his body. But her backward start had momentarily marred the completion of his manoeuvre, and there was about twelve inches of space between them. Through those twelve inches the Saint sent a bullet smashing into the man's breastbone, so that he staggered and let go and drooped back until the wall kept him from falling. But by that time, in the grace that they had been given, four other guns were out. Every gun except Luker's—if Luker had
