Follow the Saint

therefore the boathouse where Nora Prescott had been murdered was presumably a part of Marvin Chase's property. It made no difference to the facts, but the web of riddles seemed to draw tighter around him. , . .

They crossed a lawn and mounted some steps to a flagged terrace. Rosemary Chase led them through open french windows into an inoffensively furnished drawing-room, and the butler closed the windows behind him as he followed. Forrest threw himself sulkily into an armchair, but the girl had regained a composure that was just a fraction too de­tailed to be natural.

'What kind of drinks would you like ?' she asked.

'Beer for me,' said the Saint, with the same studied urbanity. 'Scotch for Hoppy. I'm afraid I should have warned you about him—he tikes to have his own bottle. We're trying to wean him, but it isn't going very well.'

The butler bowed and oozed out.

The girl took a cigarette from an antique lacquer box, and Simon stepped forward politely with his lighter. He had an absurd feeling of unreality about this new atmosphere that made it a little difficult to hide his sense of humour, but all his senses were vigilant. She was even lovelier than he had thought at first sight, he admitted to himself as he watched her face over the flame—it was hard to believe that she might be an accomplice to wilful and messy and apparently mercen­ary murder. But she and Forrest had certainly chosen a very dramatic moment to arrive. . . .

'It's nice of you to have us here,' he murmured, 'after the way we've behaved.'

'My father told me to bring you up,' she said. 'He seems to be quite an admirer of yours, and he was sure you couldn't have had anything to do with—with the murder.'

'I noticed—down in the boathouse—you knew my name,' said the Saint thoughtfully.

'Yes—the sergeant used it.'

Simon looked at the ceiling.

'Bright lads, these policemen, aren't they? I wonder how he knew?'

'From—your gun licence, I suppose.'

Simon nodded.

'Oh, yes. But before that. I mean, I suppose he must have told your father who I was. Nobody else could have done it, could they?'

The girl reddened and lost her voice; but Forrest found his. He jerked himself angrily out of his chair.

'What's the use of all this beating about the bush, Rose­mary?' he demanded impatiently. 'Why don't you tell him we know all about that letter that Nora wrote him?'

The door opened, and the butler came back with a tray of bottles and glasses and toured the room with them. There was a strained silence until he had gone again. Hoppy Uniatz stared at the newly opened bottle of whisky which had been put down in front of him, with a rapt and menacing expression which indicated that his grey matter was in the throes of another paroxysm of Thought.

Simon raised his glass and gazed appreciatively at the sparkling brown clearness within it.

'All right,' he said. 'If you want it that way. So you knew Nora Prescott had written to me. You came to the Bell to see what happened. Probably you watched through the windows first; then when she went out, you came in to watch me. You followed one of us to the boathouse——'

'And we ought to have told the police——'

'Of course.' The Saint's voice was mild and friendly. 'You ought to have