projectile that seemed to be travelling up from the floor. His teeth clicked together and he lay down quite slowly, like a collapsing concertina.
Simon Templar straightened his tie and picked up the cigarette which he had dropped when the fun started. It had not even had time to scorch the carpet.
He surveyed the scene with a certain shadow of regret. That was the worst of having to work quickly—it merely whetted the appetite for exercise, and then left nothing for it to expend itself on. However, it was doubtful whether Osbett and Nancock could ever have provided a satisfactory workout, even with plenty of time to develop it. . . . The Saint relieved Osbett of his gun, felt Nancock's pockets for a weapon and found nothing, and then rose quickly as a scutter of footsteps on the stairs reminded him that he still had one more chance to practise his favourite uppercut. He leaped behind the door as the shifty-eyed assistant tumbled in.
The assistant was blurting out his news as he came.
'Hey, the fellow's disappeared——'
Simon toed the door away from between them and grinned at him.
'Where do you think he went to ?' he inquired interestedly.
His fist jolted up under the youth's jaw, and the assistant sat down and unrolled himself backwards and lay still.
The Saint massaged his knuckles contentedly, and pulled a large roll of adhesive tape from his pocket. He used it to fasten the three sleeping beauties' hands and feet together, and had enough left to fasten over their mouths in a way that would gravely handicap any loquacity to which they might be moved when they woke up.
Not that they were showing any signs of waking up for some time to come, which was another disadvantage attached to the effectiveness of that sizzling uppercut. By all the symptoms, it would be quite a while before they were in any condition to start a conversation. It was an obstacle to further developments which Simon had not previously considered, and he scratched his head over it in a moment of indecision. As a matter of fact, he had not given much previous consideration to anything beyond that brief and temporarily conclusive scuffle—he never made any definite plans on such occasions, but he had an infinite faith in impromptu action and the bountiful inspirations of Providence. Meanwhile, no harm would probably be done by making a quick and comprehensive search of the premises, or—
In the stillness of his meditation and the surrounding atmosphere of sleep, an assortment of sounds penetrated to his ears from the regions downstairs. There was some forced and pointed coughing, an impatient shuffling of feet, and the tapping of a coin on plate glass. More business had apparently arrived, and was getting restive.
A faintly thoughtful tilt edged itself into his eyebrows. He glanced round the room, and saw a slightly grubby white coat hanging behind the door. In a moment he had slipped into it and was buttoning it as he skated down the stairs.
The customer was a fat and frowsy woman in a bad temper.
'Tike yer time, dontcher?' she said scathingly. 'Think I've got all die ter wiste, young man? You're new here, aintcher ? Where's Mr Osbett ?'
'Some people, madam, prefer to call me fresh,' replied the Saint courteously. 'Mr Osbett is asleep at the moment, but you may confide in me with perfect confidence.'
'Confide in yer ?' retorted the lady indignantly. 'None o' your sauce, young feller! I
'That's too bad,' said the Saint, giving the shelves a quick once-over, and feeling somewhat helpless. 'Just a minute, auntie—I'm still finding my way around.'
'Fresh,' said the lady tartly, 'is right.'
Liquorice and chlorodyne lozenges were fairly easy. The Saint found a large bottle of them after a short search, and proceeded to tip half
