'I was trying to explain to your lordship,' said Teal thickly, 'that I only brought Templar down to compare his story with yours. He has no official standing whatever, and as far as I am concerned he can go home-----'
'Eh? What? Go home?' said Lord Ripwell, who had suddenly become very obtuse or very determined. 'Don't be silly. I'm sure he doesn't want to go home. He likes this sort of thing. It isn't troubling him at all. And I want to talk to him about some of his exploits-I've wanted to for years. I like him. Wish my son was half the man he is.' His lordship gurgled with what Mr. Teal, from his prejudiced viewpoint, considered to be positively doddering glee. 'You don't want to go home, do you, Templar?'
Simon tapped out a cigarette on his case, and smiled. It was certainly rather a gorgeous situation. His gaze flickered wickedly over Claud Eustace Teal's reddening face.
'All the excitement seems to go on around Lord Ripwell and me,' he murmured. 'With both of us here together under the same roof, we could look forward to a gay week-end. I think it would be a grand idea to stay.'
IV 'WELL, what d'you make of it, Templar?' asked Ripwell, when they were scattered about the living-room around a bottle of excellent dry sherry.
Simon shrugged.
'Up to the present, nothing at all. All of you know as much as I do. There seems to be some kind of move afoot to discourage people from seeing Ellshaw; but I've taken a gander at him myself, and I didn't notice anything about him that anyone would be crazy to see. All the same, there must be something big behind it-you don't get three murders planned for the same day because somebody wants to keep the name of his tailor secret.'
'Do you think you could ever have known Ellshaw under another name, your lordship?' asked Teal. 'Can you think of anyone who might have a bad enough grievance against you to want to blow you up?'
'I haven't an enemy in the world,' said Lord Ripwell; and, looking at his clean pleasant face and friendly eyes, the statement was easy to believe.
The Saint grinned slowly, and reached out to refill his glass.
'I have plenty,' he remarked. 'But if you haven't any, it disposes of that motive. Anyway, it's my experience that your enemies won't take nearly as many risks to kill you as the blokes who just think you might stand in their way. Revenge may be sweet, but boodle buys a hell of a lot more cigars.'
'Are we to consider ourselves in a state of siege?' inquired Irelock somewhat ironically.
'Not unless it amuses you,' answered the Saint coolly. 'But I don't think anyone in this gathering who wants to live to a great age ought to be too casual about standing in front of windows or wandering around the garden after dark. The Ellshaw-hiding outfit keeps moving pretty quickly, by the look of things, and they have enterprising ideas.'
Ripwell looked almost hopeful.
'I suppose you've got a gun, Inspector?'
Mr. Teal moved his head in a slow negative gesture, with his jaws working phlegmatically.
'No, I'm not armed,' he said tolerantly; and his gaze shifted deliberately on to the Saint, as if estimating the degree of certainty with which he could pick out one man who was.
'I think we have a revolver somewhere,' said Irelock.
'By George, so we have!' exclaimed Ripwell. 'See if you can find it, Martin.'
'There isn't any ammunition,' said Irelock cynically.
His lordship's face fell momentarily. Then he recovered buoyantly.
'We'll have to get some-I've got a licence for it. Never thought I should want it, but this is absolutely the time. Where can I get some cartridges? What d'you say, Inspector?
With all this business going on, I'm entitled to have a gun in self-defence, what?'
Mr. Teal had the typical English police officer's distaste for firearms, but he had no authority to show his disapproval.
'Certainly, if you have a licence, you're entitled to it,' he replied unenthusiastically. 'The local police may be able to lend you a few rounds of ammunition.'
There was another arrival before dinner in the shape of Lord Ripwell's son, the Honourable Kenneth Nulland, who drove up in a very small and very noisy sports car. Irelock went out to meet him and brought him in-he was a young man with fair wavy hair and a face rather like a bright young cod, and he was very agitated. He shook hands limply.
'Haven't you solved the mystery yet? It's no good asking me to help you. I think it was the jolly old Communists, or the Fascists, or something. Anyhow, I hope they don't try anything more while I'm here-I can only just stay to dinner.'
'I thought you were coming down for the week-end,' said his father slowly.
'Sorry, Pop. Old Jumbo Ferris rang up and asked me to go to a party-he's having a jolly old beano down at his place in Hampshire.'
'Did you have to accept? Cicely's coming over tomorrow.' Nulland shook his head. He grabbed a drink and hung himself over a chair, rather like a languid eel in plus fours. 'Sorry, Pop. But she won't miss me.'
'I don't blame her,' said Ripwell. with devastating candour. He turned to Teal and the Saint. 'Cicely Holland's a sort of protegee of mine. Works in my office. Daughter of a pal of mine when I was young. Never made any money, but he was a pal till he died. Damned fine girl. I wish Kenneth was fit to marry her. She won't look at him as he is, and I wouldn't either.'
Kenneth Nulland grinned weakly. 'Pop thinks I'm a jolly old prodigal son,' he explained. The explanation was scarcely necessary. Simon sensed the bitter disappointment behind Lord Ripwell's vigorous frankness, and, for his own comfort, led the conversation away into a less personal channel. But while he went on casually talking he studied Lord Ripwell's heir-presumptive more closely, and realised that Nulland was simultaneously studying him.
