slowly, as if they were being grad ually inflated by a very small air pump. The wob-blings of his rotund body were invisible beneath his clothes, but even without those symptoms there was something about his general aspect which suggested that a piece of tinder laid on his brow would have burst instantly into flame. When at last vocal expression could no longer be denied, his voice cracked. He practically squeaked.
'What?'
'Vickery, sir,' repeated the butler. 'My name is Vickery.'
Mr. Teal had been looking at him more closely.
'Your name is Trusaneff,' he said. 'You did three years at Parkhurst for robbery with violence.'
'Yes, sir,' said the butler respectfully. 'Nevertheless, sir, I have changed my name to Vickery.'
Teal glowered past him at a man with a scarred face who was lounging at the other end of the hall.
'And I suppose his name is Vickery, too?' he said scorchingly.
The butler looked round and nodded.
'Yes, sir. His name is also Vickery.'
'How many more Vickerys are there in this house?' Teal howled, with his brain beginning to reel.
'Three, sir,' said the butler imperturbably. 'Everyone in this house is called Vickery, with the exception of Mr. Nordsten. Even the kitchen-maid,' he added with a sigh, 'is now known as Vickery. It is highly confusing.'
Something that would have made a self-preservative rattlesnake wriggle away to hide itself down the nearest length of gas pipe welled into the detective's bulging glare. There was a strange springy sensation in his legs, as if they had been separately hitched onto two powerful steam tractors and simultaneously extended in all directions, It was, as we have already admitted, very unfortunate. It gave Mr. Teal no chance. He ploughed on doggedly; but his hold on his temper was never again the firm commanding grip of a heavyweight wrestler subduing a recalcitrant urchin it was more akin to the frantic clutch on the pants of a man whose suspenders have come apart.
'I'll see Mr. Nordsten,' he announced gratingly; and the saturnine butler bowed.
'This way, sir.'
He led the simmering detective to the library; and Mr. Teal followed him in and looked the room over with a pair of eyes in which the habitual affectation of sleepiness had to be induced with a bludgeon. Two men were sitting there, smoking cigars. One of them was a pale and tired-looking Ivar Nordsten--Teal, who made it his business to have at least a sight acquaintance with every important man in the country, had no difficulty in recognizing him--the other man called for no effort of recognition.
'Good-evening, sir,' Teal said curtly to Nordsten; and then he looked at the Saint. 'You're also Vickery, I take it?'
The Saint smiled.
'Claud,' he said penitently, 'I'm afraid we've been pulling your leg.'
Mr. Teal's tonsils came up into his mouth, and he gulped them back. The effort brought his complexion two or three shades closer to the tint of the sun-kissed damson.
'Pulling my leg,' he repeated torridly. 'Yes, I suppose you were.'
'You see, Claud,' Simon explained frankly, 'when I heard you were on your way round here looking for a bloke named Vickery, I thought it would be rather priceless if you beetled in and found that the place was simply infested with Vickerys. I could just see your patient frog-like face------'
'Could you?' Teal's voice was thick and curdled with the frightful tension of his restraint. 'Well, I'm not interested in that. WThat I want to hear from you is why you've been going under the name of Vickery yourself.' Nordsten cleared his throat. 'I suppose,' he remarked coldly, 'you consider that you have some right to come in and behave like this, Mr.--er------'
'Teal is my name, sir,' said the detective tersely. 'Chief Inspector Teal.' 'Inspects anything,' said the Saint. 'Gas meters, drains, hen roosts------'
'I'm from Scotland Yard,' Teal almost shouted. 'Where the Highlanders hang out their washing,' Simon explained.
Mr. Teal's collar strained on its studs; and Nordsten nodded.
'That need not prevent you stating your business in a proper manner,' he said stiffly. 'What is all this fuss about?'
'That man,' said the detective, with a sweltering glance at the Saint, 'is a well-known criminal. His real name is Simon Templar; and I want to know what he's doing in this house pretending to be Vickery!'
'I can easily tell you that,' answered Nordsten promptly. 'Mr. Templar is an intimate friend of mine. I know his reputation, though I should hardly go so far as to call him a criminal. But he is certainly well known, and of course servants will always talk. I think he exaggerates the powers of gossip, but whenever he comes to stay with me he always insists on calling himself Vickery to save me from any embarrassment.'
'And how long has he been staying with you this time, sir?' Teal inquired roughly.
'Since last night--or perhaps I should say yesterday morning.'
'Can you remember the time exactly?'
'It must have been a few minutes after two o'clock. I met him in Bond Street, and he had just left the Barnyard Club. I was driving home rather late from a dinner, and I asked Mr. Templar to come down with me.'
It may be confessed at once that Chief Inspector Teal had never been kicked in the stomach by a sportive mule. But if that sublime experience had ever befallen him, it is safe to affirm that the expression on his face would have been practically indistinguishable from the one which came over it as he gaped speechlessly at Nordsten. Twice he attempted to force words through his larynx, which appeared to have become clogged with glue; and at the third attempt he succeeded.
