It was. The whole lawn was lit up by it like a stage set, and a curtain of black smoke hung over it like a billowing curtain. The house was one of those old historic mansions whose lining of massive beams and mellowed panelling could be diagnosed at a glance, and it was going up like a pile of tinder. The fire seemed to have started on the ground floor, for huge gusts of flame were spouting from the open windows along the terrace and climbing like wind-ripped banners towards the roof, roaring with a boisterous glee that could be clearly heard even above the reduced splutter of the Hirondel's exhaust. The Saint drew at his cigarette and settled more firmly into his conviction that, judged by any pyrotechnical standards, it was a beaut.
Figures in a grotesque assortment of deshabille were running across the lawn with the erratic scurrying wildness of flushed rabbits.
'At least they all seem to have got out,' said the Saint.
He switched off the engine and hitched his legs over the side of the car. Some of the scurrying figures, attracted perhaps like moths by the new blaze of the headlights, had started to run towards them. The first to arrive was a young man who carried a girl over his shoulder. He was large and blond and impressively moustached, and he wore blue-and-green striped pajamas. He dumped the girl on the ground at the Saint's feet, rather like a retriever bringing in a bird, and stood over her for a moment breathing heavily.
'By Jove,' he said. 'Oh, by Jove! . . . Steady on, Val, old thing. It's all right now. You're quite safe.'
He put out a hand to restrain her as she tried to get up, but with a quick movement she wriggled away from him and found her feet. She was dark and slender, but not so slender that the transparent nightgown which was her only covering lacked fascinating contours to cling to. The chiffon had slipped aside to bare one white shoulder and her curly hair was in a wild disarray, but even the thoroughly petulant spoiled-child expression that pouted her face could not disguise its amazing beauty.
'All right, all right,' she said impatiently. 'You've rescued me now, and I'm very much obliged. But for heaven's sake stop pawing me and find me something to wear.'
She seemed to regard the fire as an event arranged by a malicious fate solely for her own inconvenience. The young man looked somewhat startled.
'Damn it, Valerie,' he said in an injured tone, 'do you realize——'
'Of course she does,' said the Saint soothingly. 'She knows you're a little hero. She's just being practical. And while we're being practical, do you happen to know whether anybody else is left in the house?'
The young man turned. He looked at Simon rather blankly, as if taken aback at being interrupted so unceremoniously.
'Eh? What?' he said. 'I dunno. I fetched Valerie out.'
From the way he said it, one gathered that nobody mattered except Valerie.
Simon patted him on the back.
'Yes, we know,' he said kindly. 'We saw you. You're a hero. We'll give you a diploma. But just the same, wouldn't it be a good idea to round up the others and make sure that nobody's missing?'
Again the young man looked blank and rather resentful. His expression indicated that having done his good deed for the day by rescuing Valerie, he expected to be set apart on a pedestal instead of being ordered about. But there was something about the Saint's cool assumption of command that eliminated argument.
'Oh, certainly. I see what you mean.'
He moved reluctantly away, and presently people came straggling in from different parts of the lawn and
