Follow the Saint

'Don't you find the floor rather hard?' he said. 'Take a pew and make yourself happy, because it looks as if we may be in for a longish talk.'

A wave of his gun added a certain amount of emphasis to the invitation, and there was a crispness in his eyes that car­ried even more emphasis than the gun.

McGuire hauled himself up hesitantly and perched on the edge of the chair, And the Saint beamed at him.

'Now if you'll look in the top drawer of the desk, Pat—I think there's quite a collection of handcuffs there. About three pairs ought to be enough. One for each of his ankles, and one to fasten his hands behind him.'

McGuire shifted where he sat.

'Wot's the idea?' he demanded uneasily.

'Just doing everything we can to make you feel at home,' answered the Saint breezily. 'Would you mind putting your hands behind you so that the lady can fix you up ? ... Thanks ever so much.. .. Now if you'll just move your feet back up against the legs of the chair——'

Rebellious rage boiled behind the other's sulky scowl, a rage that had its roots in a formless but intensifying fear. But the Saint's steady hand held the conclusive argument, and he kept that argument accurately aligned on McGuire's wishbone until the last cuff had been locked in place and the strong-arm expert was shackled to the steel chair-frame as solidly as if he had been riveted on to it.

Then Simon put down his automatic and languidly flipped open the cigarette box.

'I hate to do this to you,' he said conversationally, 'but we've really got to do something about that memory of yours. Or have you changed your mind about answering a few questions ?'

McGuire glared at him without replying.

Simon touched a match to his cigarette and glanced at Patricia through a placid trail of smoke.

'Can I trouble you some more, darling? If you wouldn't mind plugging in that old electric curling-iron of yours——'

McGuire's eyes jerked and the handcuffs clinked as he strained against them.

'Go on, why don't yer call the cops ?' he blurted hoarsely. 'You can't do anything to me!'

The Saint strolled over to him.

'Just who do you think is going to stop me?' he asked kindly.

He slipped his hands down inside McGuire's collar, one on each side of the neck, and ripped his shirt open clear to the waist with one swift wrench that sprung the buttons pinging across the room like bullets.

'Get it good and hot, darling,' he said over his shoulder, 'and we'll see how dear old Red likes the hair on his chest waved.'

VI

RED MCGUIRE stared up at the Saint's gentle smile and ice-cold eyes, and the breath stopped in his throat. He was by no means a timorous man, but he knew when to be afraid—or thought he did.

'You ain't given me a charnce, guv'nor,' he whined. 'Why don't yer arsk me somethink I can answer ? I don't want to give no trouble.'

Simon turned away from him to flash a grin at Patricia— a grin that McGuire was never meant to see.