but his exposure was too swift and unexpected for the sniper's marksmanship. Without even looking back, Simon dived across the hall and let himself out the front door.
He raced around the side of the house, and dropped to a crouch again as he reached the corner that would bring him in sight of the terrace outside the drawing-room windows. He slid an eye round the corner, prepared to yank it back on an instant's notice, and then left it there with the brow over it lowering in a frown.
It was dark on the terrace, but not too dark for him to see that there was no one standing there.
He scanned the darkness on his right, away from the house; but he could find nothing in it that resembled a lurking human shadow. And over the whole garden brooded the same eerie stillness, the same incredible absence of any hint of movement, that had sent feathery fingers creeping up his spine when he was out there before.
The Saint eased himself along the terrace, flat against the wall of the house, his forefinger tight on the trigger and his eyes probing the blackness of the grounds. No more shots came at him. He reached the french windows with the broken pane, and stretched out a hand to test the handle. They wouldn't open. They were still fastened on the inside— as he had fastened them.
He spoke close to the broken pane.
'All clear, souls. Don't put the lights on yet, but let me in.'
Presently the window swung back. There were shutters outside, and he folded them across the opening and bolted them as he stepped in. Their hinges were stiff from long disuse. He did the same at the other window before he groped his way back to the door and relit the lights.
'We'll have this place looking like a fortress before we're through,' he remarked cheerfully; and then the girl ran to him and caught his sleeve.
'Didn't you see anyone ?'
He shook his head.
'Not a soul. The guy didn't even open the window—just stuck his gun through the broken glass and sighted from outside. I have an idea he was expecting me to charge through the window after him, and then he'd 've had me cold. But I fooled him. I
He should have known better than to succumb to that delusion. In the kitchen, a trio of white-faced women and one man who was not much more sanguine jumped round with panicky squeals and goggling eyes as he entered; but Mr Uniatz removed the bottle which he was holding to his lips with dawdling reluctance.
'Hi, boss,' said Mr Uniatz, with as much phlegmatic cordiality as could be expected of a man who had been interrupted in the middle of some important business; and the Saint regarded him with new respect.
'Doesn't anything ever worry you, Hoppy ?' he inquired mildly.
Mr Uniatz waved his bottle with liberal nonchalance.
'Sure, boss, I hear de firewoiks,' he said. 'But I figure if anyone is gettin' hoit it's some udder guy. How are t'ings ?'
'T'ings will be swell, so long as I know you're on the job,' said the Saint reverently, and withdrew again.
He went back to the drawing-room with his hands in his pockets, not hurrying; and in spite of what had happened he felt more composed than he had been all the evening. It was as if he sensed that the crescendo was coming to a climax beyond which it could go no further, while all the time his own unravellings were simplifying the tangled undercurrents towards one final resolving chord that would bind them all together. And the two must coincide and blend. All he wanted was a few more minutes, a few more answers. . .. His smile was almost indecently carefree when he faced the girl again.
'All
