crazy. My uncle says I am, but he's frightened too. I can see he is, even though he won't admit it.
Something's growing up in this place that must mean trouble; and it might be in your line. I wish I could hope that you'd believe me.
JULIA TRAFFORD.'
The furrows of painful thought grooved themselves into Mr. Uniatz's brow again.
'Julia?' he said. 'Was dat de dame we spoke to downstairs?'
'I take it she was.'
'An' she wrote you dat letter?'
'To which I replied saying that I should come here as soon as I could, armed to the teeth and probably masquerading under the suggestive name of Tombs.'
'So we come here today on poipose'
'To find out whether the girl really is nuts, or whether there are fun and games in the offing that might keep us out of mischief for a while.'
Mr. Uniatz nodded. The layout was becoming clearer. Only one major point remained obscure. 'Whaddas it got to do,' he asked, 'wit' de garden?'
The Saint groaned helplessly, and rolled off the bed to rake out a clean shirt from his Oshkosh. Buttoning it at the open window, he looked out through a loose grille of trees, over the red and grey roofs of the village towards the sea. The tide was out, and the estuary was a tongue of glistening reddish mud, veined with tiny rivulets, that licked in between the hills and drank up the flow of the river. On either edge of it a narrow strip of shingle broke straight up into irregular red cliffs capped with velvet grass. The mud was littered with dinghies and stranded buoys, and the broad hulls of a half-dozen fishing boats lay canted over along the line of the deepest channel, with a man or two moving on the decks about the ordinary business of checking tackle and sorting nets. There was a sense of peace and patience about the place, an atmosphere of changeless simplicity and homeliness, that made him wonder once again what sinister racket could possibly find food in such surroundings. But that was what he had come there to discover.
He picked up his coat with a good-humoured smile.
'I'll murder you later,' he promised Mr. Uniatz kindly.
Leaving Hoppy to perform his own ablutions, he went downstairs again and strolled out into the road. He wanted a map from his car to gain a more detailed knowledge of the topography of the district; and on his way back he collected another item of information from the legend painted over the door in the traditional style: MARTIN JEFFROLL, Licensed to Sell Wines, Beer, Spirits, and Tobacco. The superscription was not new, but it revealed traces of an older name which had been blacked out. Presumably Mr. Jeffroll was the grey-haired man who had been so strangely frightened by the sound of Hoppy Uniatz's discordant voice.
Simon went back into the little bar off the hall and lighted a fresh cigarette. It was Jeffroll who came through the curtains and civilly declined the Saint's invitation to join him in a drink. Simon ordered a pink gin, and was served with unobtrusive courtesy: the panic-stricken creature whom he had glimpsed in Jeffroll's shoes a short while ago might never have existed, but the landlord had withdrawn behind a wall of indefinable reserve that was somewhat discouraging to idle conversation. Having served the drink, he retired again through the curtain, leaving the Saint alone.
Simon took up the glass and solemnly drank his own health in the mirror behind the bar; and he was setting the glass down again when the same mirror showed him a man who had just come into the hall. Quite spontaneously he turned round and scanned the newcomer as he came on under the low arch-it was purely the instinctive speculative scan of a lone man at a bar who considers the approach of another lone man with whom he may exchange some of the trivial conversation that ordinarily breaks out on these occasions, and he was unsuspectingly surprised to notice that the other was coming towards him with more than speculative directness.
There was hardly time in the short distance that the other had to cover for the Saint's curiosity to grow beyond the vaguest neutrality; and then the man was standing in front of him.
'Is that your car outside?' he asked.
His voice was harsh and domineering; and the Saint did not like it. Studying the man more closely in the waning light, he decided that he didn't care much for its owner, either. He had never been able to conceive an instant brotherly regard for ginger-headed men in loud-checked ginger plus fours, with puffy bags under their small eyes and mouths that turned down sulkily at the corners, particularly when they spoke with harsh domineering voices; but even then he was not actually suspicious.
'I have got a car outside,' he said coolly. 'A cream and red Hirondel.'
'I see. So you're the young swine who drove me into a ditch outside Sidmouth.'
The Saint ceased to be perplexed. A genial smile of complete comprehension lighted up his face.
'Good Lord!' he exclaimed happily. 'Have you been all this time getting out?'
'What did you say?' snarled the man.
'I asked whether you'd been all this time getting out,' Simon repeated, with undiminished affability. 'Or was that a rude question? Is your car still in and did you walk from there?'
The man took another step towards him. At those still closer quarters, he did not look any more attractive.
'Don't give me any of your lip,' he rasped. 'Do you know you nearly killed me with your dirty driving?'
'I rather hoped I had,' said the Saint calmly. 'I like killing road-hogs-it makes the country so much more pleasant to move about in.'
'Say that again?'
Simon raised his eyebrows. The ginger-haired man, even without knowing the Saint, might have been warned by the imperturbable leisureliness of that gesture alone; but he was too close beside himself with rage to perceive his own foolishness.
