long. But inside he felt timelessly relaxed, and his mind was a cold pattern of crystalline understanding.
'You mean,' he said unemotionally, 'that the idea is to kill both of us, and arrange it so that you can try to spread the story that I murdered Lady Valerie and that the Sons of France killed me to avenge her.'
'I am sure that the theory will find wide acceptance,' answered Bravache complacently. 'Lady Valerie is young and beautiful, whereas you are a notorious criminal. I think that a great many people will applaud our action, and that even the British police themselves will feel a secret relief which will tend to handicap their inquiries.'
The Saint glanced at Lady Valerie. Her face had been blank with stupefaction; now it was drawn and frightened. Her big brown eyes were fixed on him in mute and hypnotized entreaty.
'I told you you had charming friends, darling,' Simon remarked.
He studied Bravache with cold-blooded interest. He felt that in the space of a few minutes he had come to know the man intimately, that he could take his soul apart and lay out all its components. How much of what Bravache had said was genuine fanaticism, or genuine self-deception, however wilful, he could not judge; in that kind of neurotic, the blend of idealism and conscienceless rationalization became so homogeneous that it was practically impossible to draw a sharp cleavage. But he was not so much interested in the man individually as in the type, the matrix in which all the petty satraps of tyranny are cast. He had known it in Red Russia, in Fascist Italy, in Nazi Germany, and had known the imaginative horror of conceiving of life under a dynasty in which liberty and life itself lay at the caprice of men from that mould. Now he was finding the imprint of the same die on a Frenchman, the chilling prototypical hallmark of the breed from which secret police and authorized persecutors are recruited; and it gave him a grimmer measure of the thing he had set out to fight than anything else hitherto had done. If the Sons of France had progressed far enough to develop officers like Major Bravache, the wheels must be turning with nightmare speed. . . .
'It all sounds very neat and jolly, my dear Major Cochon,' he admitted. 'Do we start right away?'
'I think we had better do so,' said Bravache, still smiling with a face of marble. 'We have already wasted enough time.' He turned his head. 'Dumaire, you know what to do. We will leave you to do it.' He looked at the Saint again, with his lips drawn back from his white even teeth. 'You, Mr Templar, will accompany Pietri and myself. If you resist or try to obstruct us you will be shot at once. I advise you to come quietly. I am hoping that as a reasonable man you will agree that the prospect of death in a number of hours is preferable to the certainty of death immediately. Besides'—the gleam of the white teeth was feline—'as a gentleman, you will not wish to deprive me of the opportunity to answer some of your remarks which I have not had time to deal with here.'
The Saint smiled.
'By no manner of means,' he said. 'Only I should rather like to take charge of the interview myself at this point—if you don't mind.'
He stepped aside and backwards, and took hold of Pietri by the ear. The movement was so improbable and unexpected that it was completed before either Bravache or Dumaire could reorient their wits sufficiently to do anything about it. And by fhat time Pietri was securely held, like a writhing urchin in the grip of an old-fashioned school-marm, so that his body was between the Saint and Bravache, who was still trying to make up his mind whether to grab for the automatic which he had confidently left lying on the table a yard away.
Bravache's poise broke for a moment.
'Use your gun, you fool!' he thundered.
'He can't,' said the Saint. 'You tell them why, Sam.'
An extra turn on the piece of gristle he was holding made his victim squeak like a mouse.
'There's nothing in
