The youngster was a mass of undisciplined nerves under his flaccid posturing, and the inane cliches which made up ninety per cent, of his dialogue came pattering out so noisily at the slightest lull in the general talk that Simon wondered why he was so afraid of silence.
Teal noticed it too.
'What do you think?' he asked the Saint.
They were alone together for a moment after dinner- Lord Ripwell was telephoning the local Inspector, and Nulland had taken Martin Irelock out to admire some new gadget he had had fitted to his car.
'He's frightened,' said the Saint carefully. 'But I don't know that it would take much to frighten him. Maybe he doesn't want to be blown up.'
Mr. Teal sucked at his after-dinner ration of spearmint. He was letting himself become temporarily resigned to the irregularity of his position. After all, there was nothing else that he could do about it. The house was Lord Ripwell's, and the case was more or less Lord Ripwell's: if Lord Ripwell wanted the Saint to stay with him, that was Lord Ripwell's business and nobody else's. Even the Assistant Commissioner, Teal tried to tell himself with more confidence than he actually felt, could have found no flaw in the transparent logic of the argument. Therefore, proceeded Chief Inspector Teal, brilliantly scoring all the points in this pleasant imaginary debate with the spectre of his superior officer, since the Saint had to be accepted, it was simply an obvious stroke of masterly and unscrupulous cunning to pick his brains for any help they could be induced to yield.
'That fellow had something on his mind,' said the detective, astutely pursuing this Machiavellian plan.
'If you could call it a mind,' said the Saint, docilely surrendering the fruits of his cerebration.
Teal screwed up a scrap of pink paper in his pudgy fingers.
'I suppose he'd come into all Ripwell's money, if a bomb went off as it was meant to.'
'Don't forget he'd come into all Mrs. Ellshaw's money as well-and mine,' said the Saint, with the utmost kindness. 'And I'll bet he'd need it all. There's a beautiful motive in that, waiting for some bright detective to dig it out, Claud. I expect Ripwell gives him a perfectly miserly allowance, don't you? Ripwell strikes one as that sort of man.'
Mr. Teal's mouth tightened-he was an amiable man in most ways, but he had a train of memories behind him which were apt to start a quite unreasonably truculent inflammation in his stout bosom when the Saint smiled at him so compassionately and said things which made him feel that his legs were being playfully lengthened. He might even have responded with fatal rudeness, if he had had time to compose a sufficiently crushing retort; but Lord Ripwell joined them again before this devastating gem of repartee was polished to his mordant satisfaction.
'Inspector Oldwood will be over in ten minutes,' said his lordship. 'He's bringing some ammunition for my gun-I wish I knew where the damned thing was.' He went to the french window that opened on to the garden at the side, and peered out. 'Hey, Martin!'
It was nearly dark outside, and the air had turned cool directly the sun went down. Simon Templar, lighting one of Lord Ripwell's cigars by the mantelpiece, wondered if that seasonable evening chill was enough to account for the way Kenneth Nulland seemed to be shivering when he came in behind the secretary.
'Martin, where is that damned revolver? I haven't seen it for months.'
'I think it's in the loft,' said Irelock. 'Shall I have a look for it tomorrow?'
'Tomorrow?' repeated Ripwell, screwing up his face like a disappointed schoolboy. 'Eh? What? I want it now. Suppose this gang comes back tonight? Nonsense. What's the matter with looking for it now?'
'Right-ho,' said Irelock peaceably. 'I'll look for it now.'
'Right-jolly-old-ho,' echoed Nulland, peeling himself off the edge of the table in his undulating boneless way. 'And I must be tootling along. Cheerio, Pop. Sorry I can't stay longer, but jolly old Jumbo Ferris is always complaining about me being late for his parties. Toodle-oo, Martin-------'
Mr. Teal cleared his throat.
'Just a minute, Mr. Nulland,' he said. 'There are one or two small questions you might be able to help us with before you go.'
The young man's restless eyes travelled about the room.
'What are they? I don't know anything.'
'Have you ever met a man named-----'
'Look!'
It was Irelock's voice, sharp and unnatural. Wheeling round to look at him, the Saint saw that his face was tense and startled, his weak eyes in their tortoiseshell frames staring rigidly at the window.
'What is it?' snapped Teal.
'A man looked in-just now-with a mask on his face. I saw him'
Teal put his gum away in the side of his mouth and waded towards the casement with surprising speed for a man of his flabby dimensions, but Simon was even quicker. His hand dropped on the detective's shoulder.
'Wait for it, Claud! You may be just ballast at Scotland Yard, but you're the light of my life-and I'd hate you to go out too soon. Switch off those lights, somebody!'
It was Lord Ripwell who carried out the order; and the Saint's voice went on speaking in the dark.
'Okay, souls. Now you can get on with it. But try to remember what I told you about standing in front of lighted windows-and watch your step outside. Will someone show me the way to the back door?'
'I will,' barked Ripwell eagerly.
He grabbed Simon by the arm and hustled him into the hall. Irelock called out: 'Shall Ken and I take the
