The Saint turned his head.
'Not yet. Not positively. I've just got a few ideas walking around in my mind. One or two of 'em have got together for a chat, and when they've all met up I think they're going to tell me something. I'd like to see how his lordship's getting on.'
He went upstairs and let himself quietly into the bedroom. Ripwell was smoking a cigar and reading a book, and he looked up with a steady smile that overcame the pallor of his face.
'Looks as if I'm pretty hard to kill, what? You were splendid-I wish we'd caught one of those blighters. Why the devil didn't I have that damned revolver? I might have bagged one myself.'
'Inspector Oldwood brought over some ammunition for you,' said the Saint. 'I'll see that you have it before we turn in. It's a comforting thing to have under your pillow.'
'Damn comforting,' agreed his lordship. 'I don't mind telling you I'm glad to have you in the house-you won't be leaving yet, will you?'
'Not for a while.'
Lord Ripwell grunted cheerfully.
'That's good. They got Kenneth, didn't they? Oh, yes, I know-I dragged it out of Martin just now. Decent of you to try and keep it from me, but I'd rather know. I can stand a good deal. Wish Kenneth could. Still, an experience like that may wake him up a bit. What d'you think they'll do to him?'
'I don't know. But somehow I don't think it'll be anything -fatal.'
Ripwell nodded.
'Neither do I. If they'd wanted to-do that . . . they needn't have taken him away. I'm glad you think so too, though. I wouldn't like to feel I was hoodwinking myself. Somebody'd better ring up that chap Ferris and tell him Ken won't be coming down.'
'Do you know the number?'
'Never did know it. Ring up his flat in London and see if you can get it from there. The least we can do is to save Kenneth from getting in trouble for being late again. You'll find a directory under that table. Address in Duchess Place somewhere, I think.'
'What?'
The question was slapped out of the Saint with such spontaneous startlement that Ripwell dropped his cigar and scorched the sheet.
'Eh? What? What's the matter?'
'Did you say Duchess Place?'
Ripwell picked up his cigar and dusted off the debris of ash from the bedclothes.
'I think that's right. Kenneth has talked about it. Why?'
Simon did not answer. He sprang up and dived under the extension telephone table by the bedside for the directory. He could hear Mrs. Florence Ellshaw's unmusical voice rasping in his ear as clearly as if her ghost had been standing beside him, repeating fragments of her long-winded and meandering story: '. . . In Duchess Place, sir . . . number six . . . next door to two young gennelmen as I do for, such nice young gennelmen. . . .'
'Does he share this flat with another fellow?' Simon jerked out, whipping over the pages.
Lord Ripwell raised his eyebrows foggily.
'I believe he does. Don't know who it is, though. How did you know?'
The Saint didn't answer that one either. He had found his place in the directory and run down the list of Ferrises until he came to one whose address was in Duchess Place- at number eight, Duchess Place. And he was staring at the entry with a queer short-winded feeling sinking into his solar plexus and an electric buck-and-wing careering over his ganglions in a style that eclipsed everything else of its kind hitherto. It was several seconds before he spoke at all.
'Holy Smoke,' he breathed. 'Jolly Old Jumbo!'
VI 'WHAT'S the matter?' repeated Lord Ripwell, with pardonable blankness.
'Nothing,' said the Saint absently. 'It's just some more of the pieces falling into place. Wait a minute.'
He jumped up and began to pace quickly up and down the room, slamming the directory shut and chucking it back under the table. The train of thought was moving faster, dashing hectically up and down over its maze of sidings faster than he was covering the floor. His tanned keen face was cut into bronze lines of intense thought, with his sea-blue eyes blazing vividly against the sunburned background. He wheeled round with his fist smashing impetuously into his palm.
'It's getting together. ... To kill Mrs. Ellshaw just because she'd come to see me wasn't such a good motive. I was flattering myself a bit. But she'd always have to talk-to some one. Suppose it was the two young gennelmen that she did for? That's the sort of coincidence that happens. When Ellshaw had to disappear, who could have foreseen that his wife might go to work for someone who knew the bloke who . . . Wait for it again. . . . Yes, they knew Kenneth. And Kenneth never said whether he'd heard of Ellshaw-never had a chance to. ... My God, I'd forgotten that piece of organisation!'
Ripwell's pleasant face was hardening uncertainly.
'What are you driving at? If you're suggesting that Kenneth is a murderer'
'Murderer?' The Saint came up with a start, half dazed, out of the trance in which he had been letting his thoughts race on aloud, without making any effort to dictate their destination. 'I never said that. ButGod, am I getting this
