Prelude For War

'Lady Valerie Woodchester,' said Patricia, 'is the spoiled darling of London Society. She uses Mond's Van­ishing Cream, Kissabel Lipstick, and Charmante Skin Tonic. She goes to all the right places at all the right times, and she has her photograph in the Bystander every week. She has also stolen all my best clothes.'

'Don't worry about that, darling,' said the Saint reas­suringly. 'I'll take them off her.'

Pat made a face at him.

'That wouldn't surprise me a bit,' she said calmly.

'The young hero who rescued Lady Valerie,' resumed Peter, when order had been restored, 'is Captain Donald Knightley of the Dragoon Guards. He has a fine seat on a horse and a set of membership cards to all the best night clubs. That's all I could find out about him. . . . And that only leaves John Kennet, the man who didn't fit in any­where.'

'Yes,' said the Saint thoughtfully. 'The man who didn't fit in. And he seems to have been the most important one of all.'

Patricia made a sharp restless movement.

'Are you sure?' she said, as if she was still fighting against conviction. 'After all, if Fairweather has been in Parliament, he may have got friendly with Kennet's father ——'

'I wouldn't argue. The old man may be a bit bothered about his aitches now and again, and he may still pretend that he belongs to the Labour party, but he joined the national government at the right time so of course all the duchesses love him because they know his heart must be in the right place. If it had been the old man, it might have been all right. But it wasn't. It was young Kennet. And young Kennet was a pacifist, an anti-blood-sporter, an anti-capitalist, an anti-Fascist and the Lord knows what not; and he once said publicly that his father had proved to be the arch-Judas of the working classes. Well, there may be all sorts of harmless reasons why a fellow like that should have been invited to join that congregation of worshippers of the golden calf, but you must admit that he still looks like the ideal burnt offering.'

There was a silence, in which the only interruption was the sound of Mr Uniatz cautiously uncorking his private bottle of Vat 69, while their thoughts went on.

Peter said: 'Yes. But that isn't evidence. You've been very mysterious all this time, but you must have something more definite than that.'

'I'll give you four things,' said the Saint.

He stood up and leaned against one of the pillars of the porch, facing them, very tall and dark and somehow deadly against the sunlit peace of the garden. Their eyes were drawn as if by a magnet.

'One: Kennet's door was locked.'

Patricia stared at him.

'So you mentioned,' Peter said slowly. 'But if everybody who locked a door——'

'I can only think of two kinds of people who'd lock their bedroom doors when they were staying in a private house,' said the Saint. 'Frightened virgins and—frightened men.'

'Maybe he was expecting a call from Lady Valerie,' suggested Patricia half heartedly.

'Maybe he was,' agreed the Saint patiently. 'But if that made him lock his door, he must have been a very undiscriminating young man. And in any case, that's only half of it. He not only locked his door, but he took the key out of the lock. Now, even assuming that anyone might lock a door, there's only one reason for taking the key out of