of fury ringing in his ears.
More by luck than judgment he found the animal's throat with his hands; and probably it was that fluke, and the reprieve of a second or two it gave him, which saved him from serious injury, 'Sheba!'
The lights had gone up in the hall, and he heard running footsteps. He had never been so breathlessly thankful to hear anything in his life. A whip lashed, and the huge black panther on top of him roared again and stepped back, turning its head with bared fangs. Simon took his chance and rolled clear--it was the fastest roll he had ever performed in his acrobatic career.
'Back!' shouted Nordsten furiously and lashe at the panther again.
It was one of the most amazing demonstrations of brutal fearlessness which Simon had ever witnessed. Nordsten simply advanced step by step, swinging the wire-tipped rawhide back and forth in a steady rhythm of flailing punishment; and as he went forward, the panther went back. Quite obviously it had never been tame, and no attempt had ever been made to tame it. Nordsten dominated it by nothing but his own savage courage. Its yellow eyes blazed with the most horrible intelligent hatred which the Saint had ever dreamed of seeing in the eyes of an animal; it clawed and bit at the slashing whip with deep growls of murderous rage; but it went back. Nordsten's face was black with anger, and he had no more pity than fear. He drove the brute right across the hall into a corner, lashed it half a dozen times more when it could retreat no farther--and then turned his back on it. It crouched there, staring after him, with a steady rumbling of frightful viciousness burring in its throat.
'You're lucky to be alive, Vickery,' Nordsten said harshly, curling his whip in his big white hands.
He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown--. Simon had known very few financiers who could be impressive in that costume, but Nordsten was.
The Saint nodded, dabbing his handkerchief over the deep claw-groove in his bare forearm.
'I was just coming to the same conclusion,' he remarked lightly. 'Have you got any more docile pets like that around the place?'
'What were you doing down here?' answered Nordsten sharply; and Simon remembered that he was still supposed to be Tim Vickery.
'I wanted a drink,' he explained. 'I thought all the servants would have been in bed by this time, so I didn't like to ring for it. I just came down to see if I could find anything. I was halfway down the stairs when that thing started chasing me------'
Nordsten's faded bright eyes looked away to the left, and Simon saw that the saturnine butler was standing on the stairs at a safe distance, with a revolver clutched in his hand.
'You forgot to lock the door, Trusaneff?' Nordsten said coldly.
The man licked his lips.
'No, sir------'
'It wasn't locked, anyway,' said the Saint blankly.
Nordsten looked at the butler for a moment longer; then at the Saint. Simon met his gaze with an expression of honest perplexity, and Nordsten turned away abruptly and went past him into the library, switching on the lights. He saw the automatic lying in the middle of the carpet and picked it up.
'Is this yours?'
'Yes.' Simon blinked and shifted his eyes with an air of mild consternation. 'I--I always carry it now, and-- Well, when that animal started------'
'I see.' Nordsten's genial nod of understanding was very quick. He glanced at the Saint's gashed arm. 'You'll need a bandage on that. Trusaneff will attend to it. Excuse me.'
He spoke those few words as if with their utterance the episode was finally concluded. Somehow the Saint found himself outside the library door while Nordsten closed it from the outside.
'This way, please, Mr. Vickery,' said the butler, without moving from his safe position on the lower flight of stairs.
Simon felt for his cigarette case and walked thoughtfully across the hall. Through another half-open door he caught a glimpse of the scared features of the battle-scarred warrior who had paraded under his window, peering out from an equally safe position. The black panther crouched in the corner where Nordsten had left it, lashing its tail in sullen silence. . . .
Altogether a very exciting wind-up to a pleasant social evening, reflected the Saint; if it was the wind-up. . . . He rememberd that Nordsten had carelessly omitted to give him back his automatic when ushering him so smoothly out of the library, and realized that he would have felt a lot happier if the financier had been less pointedly forgetful. He also remembered that either Annette or Patricia should have telephoned him that night, and wondered why there had been no message. Teal might have been responsible--so far as Simon knew, that persistent detective had not been aware of his latest acquisition in the way of real estate; but there had been no secrecy about the transaction, and it would have been perfectly simple for Mr. Teal to discover it after a certain amount of time. Or else they might have tried to telephone, and Nordsten or one of his servants might have been the barrier. That also was possible, since he had already been allowed to write a letter which had doubtless been read before it was posted. He
was developing a profound respect for Ivar Nordsten's thoroughness------
'Vickery.'
It was Nordsten's voice; and the Saint stopped, and saw the financier standing at the foot of the stairs.
'I'd like to see you again for a moment, if your arm can wait.'
There was no real question of whether his arm could wait; and Simon turned with a smile.
'Of course.'
He went down the stairs again. Trusaneff halted on the last flight, and Simon crossed the hall alone.
Nordsten was standing by the desk when the Saint entered the library, and the panther was crouching at his
