forcefully over Larkstone Point into the sea; but he controlled himself. He did only want a packet of cigarettes just then, and it would be time enough to start throwing his weight about when he had something more important on hand. But he stopped a little way down the hill to make a pretence of tying his shoelace, and looked back at the hotel. The big black-haired man, Kane, was sitting outside now, exactly as Voss had been sitting, turning the pages of the same newspaper. The door was still guarded while Hoppy remained inside-Voss must have given some signal to call out the reserve watchdog when he left his post.
Simon bought a packet of cigarettes, while Voss made a similar purchase, and turned back up the hill. He was walking slowly, but his brain was tearing along, trying to place itself inside the minds of at least three people at once. In spite of that, while he had built up and demolished a score of theories, he hadn't a single settled hypothesis standing at the end of this quarter of an hour's walk.
Someone else had thought ahead of him-he saluted the fact grimly as he came up to the door of the inn again. The lawyer's car was still standing outside, but the man himself was not in sight. Jeffroll was. He was standing beside Kane, watching them approach; and he nodded as the Saint came up.
'Good morning, Mr. Tombs-could you spare me a moment?'
'Any number,' said the Saint coolly.
At that moment he was tense and alert, keyed to a hair-trigger watchfulness, although there was not a trace of uneasiness to be read on his brown face.
'Come into the office,' said Jeffroll.
Simon realised that his face was curiously strained and haggard, his mouth twitching unconsciously as it had been the previous evening. Whatever this conversation was to be about, quite definitely it held something that the Saint hadn't included in any of his theories.
Perhaps that was the principal reason why Simon Templar's vigilance relaxed at that crucial moment. He had shrewdly summarised Jeffroll as a man who would never be a good actor, and he knew that that drawn anxiety was utterly genuine. He followed the landlord through the lounge and the curtains behind the bar, with his imagination whirling through a fresh burst of frantic effort to encompass this new and unexpected twist, but without the same grim vigilance, although he knew that Voss had come in also and was following behind him. That is, and ever after was, the only excuse he could make for himself; and the mistake have cost him his life.
Jeffroll opened the door of the office, and stood aside for the Saint to go in. Simon went in with a languid stride-Port-more and Weems were there, but the lawyer was surprisingly absent. Then something hard jabbed into his back, and he began to appreciate his error.
'Put up your hands.'
It was Jeffroll's voice, behind him, speaking with a half-hysterical menace that held the Saint studiously motionless where a more callous and seasoned intonation might have encouraged him to lazy backchat or even a swift attempt to retrieve the situation. But he was old enough in outlawry to know that the innkeeper's forefinger was as uncertain on the trigger as only the finger of a panic-stricken man can be; and he stood very still.
The weight of his automatic came off his hip pocket; and then he was pushed forward. Only then, when he could turn round and see Jeffroll's face, and keep a wary eye on the man's reactions, did he venture to indulge in any conversational amenities.
'Bless my soul,' he remarked mildly. 'Do you know, for a moment I thought you were going to kiss me.'
Major Portmore reached down under the desk, where he was sitting, and brought up the shot-gun which he had been carrying in the wood that morning.
'Get over against the wall and shut up,' he ordered harshly.
Simon got over against the wall.
'Now then,' said Jeffroll, over the sights of his revolver, 'where is Julia?'
The Saint's mouth hardened as if it had been turned to stone. Then that was the explanation of the landlord's strange whiteness. Ideas drummed through his brain-Hoppy Uniatz asleep, Garthwait who had escaped while he was away, the lawyer's visit. . . . But he scarcely had time to pin down one of those speeding flashes of fact before Jeffroll's voice was shrilling into his ears again.
'Hurry up, damn you! I'm going to count up to ten. If you haven't answered by that time'
'What happens?' asked the Saint, in his quietest voice. 'You can hang yourself off that beam without bothering to shoot me-or would you rather have it done legally? And where does it get you, anyhow?'
Portmore nodded.
'That's right,' he said impersonally. 'I told you shooting was too quick, Jeffroll. Voss-Weems-you tie him up. I'll see if I can make him talk.'
Weems got up limply out of his chair and produced a coil of wire. The Saint's arms were twisted behind his back, and the wrists quickly and efficiently bound; then his ankles were similarly treated. Jeffroll's mouth worked as if he was tempted to refuse interference and stick to his original threat, but he said nothing.
Portmore got up and came round the desk. He handed the shot-gun over to Voss and stood in front of the Saint.
'Will you answer that question, or have I got to thrash it out of you?' he demanded.
Simon looked at him steadily. Placed as he was, it required a superhuman effort to hold back the obvious defiance. Only the fact that he could understand and sympathise with the feelings of his inquisitors helped him to check his temper -that, and the knowledge that the same liberties could not be taken with a crazed amateur that could be taken with dispassionate professionals.
'Don't you think it might have been worth while asking me the question in a normal manner, before you were reduced to all this Lyceum stuff?' he replied evenly.
For a second they were taken aback; then Portmore blustered back into the breach.
'All right-if you're going to answer the question, you can answer it now.'
