lights clicked on with a sudden dazzling brightness. Patricia Holm stood in the doorway, the lines of her figure draping exquisite contours into the folds of a filmy neglige, her fair hair tousled with sleep and hazy startlement in her blue eyes.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't know you had company.'
'That's all right,' said the Saint. 'We're keeping open house.'
He lounged back to rest the base of his spine against the edge of the table and inspected the caller in more detail. He saw a short-legged barrel-chested individual with a thatch of carroty hair, a wide coarse-lipped mouth, and a livid scar running from one side of a flattened nose to near the lobe of a misshapen ear; and recognition dawned in his gaze.
He waved his gun in a genial gesture.
'You remember our old pal and playmate, Red McGuire ?' he murmured. 'Just back from a holiday at Parkhurst after his last job of robbery with violence. Somebody told him about all those jewels we keep around, and he couldn't wait to drop in and see them. Why didn't you ring the bell, Red, and save yourself the trouble of carving up our door?'
McGuire sat on the floor and tenderly rubbed his head.
'Okay,' he growled. 'I can do without the funny stuff. Go on an' call the cops.'
Simon considered the suggestion. It seemed a very logical procedure. But it left an unfinished edge of puzzlement still in his mind.
There was something about finding himself the victim of an ordinary burglary that didn't quite ring bells. He knew well enough that his reputation was enough to make any ordinary burglar steer as far away from him as the landscape would allow. And serious burglars didn't break into any dwelling chosen at random and hope for the best, without even knowing the identity of the occupant—certainly not burglars with the professional status of Red McGuire. Therefore . . .
His eyes drained detail from the scene with fine drawn intentness. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Perhaps he had arrived too quickly for that. Everything was as he had left it when he went to bed. Except—
The emptied packet of Miracle Tea which Patricia had bought for him that evening was still in his coat pocket. The packet which he had refilled for Teal's personal consumption was still on the table. ... Or was it ?
Simon absorbed the jar of realization without batting an eyelid. But a slowly increasing joy crept into the casual radiance of his smile.
'Why ask me to be so unfriendly, Red?' he drawled. 'After all, what's a packet of tea between friends ?'
If he needed any confirmation of his surmise, he had it in the way Red McGuire's small green eyes circled the room and froze on the yellow carton beside him before they switched furtively back to the Saint's face.
'Wot tea ?' McGuire mumbled sullenly.
'Miracle Tea,' said the Saint gently. 'The juice that pours balm into the twinging tripes. That's what you came here for tonight, Red. You came here to swipe my beautiful packet of gut-grease and leave some phony imitation behind instead!'
McGuire glowered at him stubbornly.
'I dunno wot yer talkin' abaht.'
'Don't you?' said the Saint, and his smile had become almost affectionate. 'Then you're going to find the next half hour tremendously instructive.'
He straightened up and reached over for a steel chair that stood close to him, and slid it across in the direction of his guest.
