across the inlet, with here and there a hull whose brighter paint and more delicate lines spoke of some more fortunate resident's pleasure. A little way out on the darkening water he could see a few scraps of sail, and a curiously shaped vessel at anchor which looked like a dredger.
He was rather surprised to see a signpost on the quay- one arm pointed to Seaton, the other to Sidmouth. He had not known that there was another through road besides the one by which he had arrived. Later that evening he looked it up on a map and found that there was an alternative route along the coast which took a big loop seawards, rejoining his own road near Lyme Regis.
The knowledge did not immediately give him any clue to the mystery. He sat on a bollard and watched the tide lap in through the gathering dark, smoking a steady series of cigarettes and trying to coordinate his meagre information. There was a girl who did not look particularly hysterical, who had heard strange things at night. There was an innkeeper who was undoubtedly a badly frightened man. There was a red-haired road hog who seemed to have something to do with something. There were four hikers untouched by the weather who talked like traditional conspirators in the accents of Sandhurst. He could see one rather obvious theory which might somehow embrace them all, but it failed to satisfy him. Larkstone was some way east of the historical smugglers' country; and in any case the popularisation of aerial transport had changed all the settings of that profession.
Mr. Uniatz had no theories. He had been trying very hard to work several things out for himself, but after a while the effort gave him a headache and he laid off.
It was quite dark when they strolled back to the hotel. Jeff-roll was locking up. He bade the Saint a distantly polite good night, and Simon remembered the lorry which was taking up more than its fair share of the garage.
'Do you think it could be moved?' he asked. 'I'm likely to be here for two or three days.'
The landlord pursed his lips apologetically.
'As a matter of fact, it was left here on account of a debt by a man I've never seen again. It won't go-the propeller shaft is broken. And it's too heavy to push. I don't want to spend any money on repairing it, and I'm trying to sell it as it stands. I'm afraid it is a bit of a nuisance, but I'd be very much obliged if you could put up with it.'
Simon went upstairs with the knowledge that he was unlikely to get much sleep that night, but the prospect did not trouble him. He had gone without sleep before, and could give the appearance of going without it for phenomenal periods, although by cat-napping at appropriate moments he could secure more rest than many people gain, from a night's conventional slumber. At the same time he wished that he could have heard more from Julie Trafford first, and it might have been a telepathic fulfillment of his unspoken thought when the door of his bedroom opened again almost as soon as he had closed it and she came in.
Almost every woman has some setting in which she can look astonishingly beautiful: for Julia Trafford, wide- trousered crepe de Chine pyjamas and a flimsy silk wrap, with the shaded lights striking unexpected glints of copper from her dark hair, was only one of many, Hoppy Uniatz, who had no natural modesty, stared at her dreamily. The Saint could have thought of many more interesting things to talk to her about than the troubles of her frightened uncle; but he hoped she was not going to fall in love with him, which was one of the most serious risks he ran when succouring damsels in distress.
'I had to see you,' she said. 'That letter I wrote was so stupid-I didn't believe you'd pay any attention to it at all. Are you really the Saint?'
'Scotland Yard is convinced about it,' he said solemnly, 'so I suppose I must be.'
He made her sit down and gave her a cigarette.
'What exactly is this all about?' he asked.
'I don't know,' she said helplessly. 'That's the trouble. That's why I wrote to you. There's something ugly going on. My uncle's terrified, even though he won't admit it. I've begged him to tell me several times, but he keeps on saying I'm imagining things. And I know that isn't true.'
The ginger-haired man, apparently, had been there before; and on his second visit he had been accompanied by two others whose descriptions sounded equally unpleasant. Each time he had seen Jeffroll alone, and each time the interview had left the innkeeper white and shaking. After both occasions she had made attempts to gain his confidence, but he had only denied that there was any trouble, and refused to talk about it any more. She knew, however, that since the second visit he had taken out a licence for a revolver, for the local police sergeant had come in with it one afternoon when he was out.
'Do you think he's being blackmailed?' she asked.
'I don't know,' said the Saint mildly. 'What about these noises you hear at night-would they be the blackmailers painting up their armour?'
'They're-well, I told you nearly all I could in my letter. This is a very old place, and a lot of boards creak when they're stepped on. Sometimes when I've been lying awake reading at night I've heard them, even when I know Uncle Martin's gone to bed and nobody else has any business to be moving about. At first I thought we were being burgled, but I went downstairs twice and I couldn't find anybody.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'You thought there were burglars in the place, and you went down to look for them alone?'
'Oh, I'm not nervous-I think most burglars would run for their lives if they thought anybody was coming after them. But that was before that red-haired man came here.'
'And the noises have been going on-how long?'
'Nearly all the time I've been here. And then there's the rumbling. It sounds like a train going by, very close, so that the house vibrates; but the nearest railway is five miles away.' She looked at him with a sudden youthful defiance. 'You don't believe in ghosts, do you?'
'I've never seen one yet,' he said coolly. 'Certainly not a ginger-haired one in ginger plus fours.'
He finished his cigarette and lighted another, strolling thoughtfully about the room. He did believe in neurotic women, having been pestered by more than his share, but he knew no species which panicked over imaginary terrors and at the same time went single-handed in search of burglars. Besides, he had seen certain things for himself. The landlord's startling reaction to Mr. Uniatz's rasping voice, for instance- it had puzzled him considerably at the time, but he realised now that a man who had had disturbing interviews with a bloke like Gingerhead might have some reason to be frightened of a stranger who looked and talked like the most blatantly typical gangster that ever stepped. Obviously Jeffroll was being threatened; but ordinary blackmail was a very inadequate explanation,
