rooms beyond. From the head of the basement stairs he heard an undisturbed clink of dishes and mutter of voices which reassured him that the rest of the staff were strictly minding their own business.
In another moment he was on his way up the main staircase.
On the first wide landing he knew he was near his destination. Under one door there was a thin streak of light, and as he inched noiselessly up to it he heard the faint syncopated patter of a typewriter. Then the soft burr of a telephone interrupted it.
A voice said: 'Yes. . . . Yes.' There was a slight pause; then: 'Vernon! Here is your copy for the special nine o'clock broadcast. Take it down. 'Why suffer from indigestion when relief is so cheap ? Two cups will make your pains vanish—only two. Four cups will set you on the road to a complete cure—so why not take four ? But after sixteen cups you will forget that indigestion ever existed. Think of that. Sixteen cups will make you feel ten years younger. Wouldn't
The receiver rattled back. And the latch of the door rattled as Simon Templar closed it behind him.
The man at the desk spun round as if a snake had bitten him.
'Good evening, Baron,' said the Saint.
He stood there smiling, blithe and elegant and indescribably dangerous.
The Baron stared frozenly back at him. He was a tall, cleanshaven man with dark hair greying at the temples, and he wore impeccable evening clothes with the distinction of an ambassador: but he had spoken on the telephone in a voice that was quite strangely out of keeping with his appearance. And the Saint's smile deepened with the joy of final certainty as he held his gun steadily aligned on the pearl stud in the centre of the Baron's snowy shirt-front.
The first leap of fear across the Baron's dark eyes turned into a convincing blaze of anger.
'What is the meaning of this ?'
'At a rough guess, I should say about fifteen years—for you,' answered the Saint equably. 'It'll be quite a change from your usual environment, I'm afraid. That is, if I can judge by the pictures I've seen of you in the society papers. Baron Inescu driving off the first tee at St Andrew's—Baron Inescu at the wheel of his yacht at Cowes—Baron Inescu climbing into his new racing monoplane. I'm afraid you'll find the sporting facilities rather limited at Dartmoor, Baron ... or would you rather I called you—Henry ?'
The Baron sat very still.
'You know a great deal, Mr Templar.'
'Just about all I need to know, I think. I know you've been running the most efficient espionage organization that poor old Chief Inspector Teal has had to scratch his head over for a long time. I know that you had everything lined up so well that you might have got away with it for years if it hadn't been for one of those Acts of God that the insurance companies never want to underwrite. I told you I knew all about it this morning, but you didn't believe me. By the way, how does the jaw feel tonight ?'
The other watched him unwinkingly.
'I'm afraid I did find it hard to believe you,' he said evenly. 'What else do you know ?'
'I know all about your phoney broadcasts. And if it's of any interest to you, there will be a squad of large flat-footed bogey-men waiting for numbers six, fourteen, and twenty-seven when they stop by for their Miracle Tea. ... I know that instead of getting ready to pay me the tax I asked for, you tried to frame me for the murder of Nancock this afternoon, and I resent that, Henry.'
'I apologize,' said the Baron suavely. 'You shall have your money
