"A very dull and ordinary bunch," reflected Simon Templar, as he stood on the top of the village street pondering his next move. "Except, perhaps, the ward. Is she the luvverly 'eroine of this blinkin' adventure?"

This hopeful thought directed his steps toward the Blue Moon, which was at the same time Baycombe's club and pub. But the Saint did not reach the Blue Moon that morning, because as he passed the shop which supplied all the village requirements, from shoes to ships and sealing wax, a girl came out.

"I'm so sorry," said the Saint, steadying her with one arm.

He retrieved the parcel which the collision had knocked out of her hand, and in returning it to her he had the chance of observing her face more closely. He could find no flaw there, and she had the most delightful of smiles. Her head barely topped his shoulder.

"You must be the ward," said Simon. "Miss Pat — the village doesn't give you a surname."

She nodded.

"Patricia Holm," she said. "And you must be the Mystery Man."

"Not really — am I that already?" said the Saint with interest, and she saw at once that the desire to hide his light under a bushel was not one of his failings.

It is always a question whether the man inspires the nickname or the nickname inspires the man. When a man is known to his familiars as "Beau" or "Rabbit" there is little difficulty in supplying the answer; but a man who is called "Saint" may be either a lion or a lamb. It is doubtful whether Simon Templar would have been as proud of his title as he was if he had not found that it provided him with a ready-made, effective, and useful pose; for the Saint was pleasantly egotistical.

"There are the most weird and wonderful rumours," said the girl, and the Saint looked milder than ever.

"You must tell me," he said.

He had fallen into step beside her, and they were walking up the rough road that led to the houses on the West Tor.

"I'm afraid we've been very inhospitable," she said frankly. "You see, you set up house in the Pill Box, and that left everybody wondering whether you were possible or impossible, Baycombe society is awfully exclusive.''

"I'm flattered," said the Saint. "Accordingly, after seeing you home, I shall return to the Pill Box and sit down to consider whether Baycombe society is possible or impossible."

She laughed.

"You're a most refreshing relief," she told him. "Baycombe is full of inferiority complexes."

"Fortunately," remarked Simon gently, "I don't wear hats."

Presently she said:

"What brings you to this benighted spot?"

"A craving for excitement and adventure," answered the Saint promptly — "reenforced by an ambition to be horribly wealthy."

She looked at him with a quick frown, but his face confirmed the innocence of sarcasm which had given a surprising twist to his words.

"I shouldn't have thought anyone would have come here for that," she said.

"On the contrary," said the Saint genially, "I should have no hesitation in recommending this particular spot to any qualified adventurer as one of the few places left in England where battle, murder, and sudden death may be quite commonplace events."

"I've lived here, on and off, since I was twelve, and the most exciting thing I can remember is a house on fire," she argued, still possessed of an uneasy feeling that he was making fun of her.

"Then you'll really appreciate the rough stuff when it does begin," murmured Simon cheerfully, and swung his stick, whistling.

They reached the Manor (it was not an imposing building, but it had a homely air) and the girl held out her hand.

"Won't you come in?"

The Saint was no laggard.

I'd love to."

She took him into a sombre but airy drawing room, finely furnished; but the Saint was never self-conscious. The contrast of his rough, serviceable clothes With the delicate brocaded upholstery did not impress him, and he accepted a seat without any appearance of doubting its ability to support his weight.

"May I fetch my aunt?" asked, Miss/Holm. “I know she'd like to meet you."

"But of course," assented the Saint, smiling, and she was left with a sneaking suspicion that he was agreeing with her second sentence as much as with her first.

Miss Girton arrived in a few moments, and Simon knew at once that Baycombe had not exaggerated her grimness. "A norrer," Orace had reported, and the Saint felt inclined to agree. Miss Girton was stocky and as broad as a man: he was surprised at the strength of her grip when she shook hands with him. Her face was weather-beaten. She wore a shirt and tie and a coarse tweed skirt, woollen stockings, and heavy flatheeled shoes. Her hair was cropped.

"I was wondering when I should meet you," she said immediately. "You must come to dinner and meet some people. I'm afraid the company's very limited here."

"I'm afraid I'm prepared for very little company," said Templar. "I'd decided to forget dress clothes for a while."

"Lunch, then. Would you like to stay to-day?"

"May I be excused? Don't think me uncivil, but I promised my man I'd be back for lunch. If I don't turn up," explained the Saint ingenuously, "Orace would think something had happened to me, and he'd go cruising round with his revolver, and somebody might get hurt."

There was an awkward hiatus in the conversation at that point, but it was confined to two of the party, for Templar was admiring a fine specimen of Venetian glass and did not seem to realize that he had said anything unusual. "The girl hastened into the breach.

"Mr. Templar has come here for adventure,” she said, and Miss Girton stared.

"Well, I wish him luck," she said shortly. "On Friday, then, Mr. Templar? I'll ask some people...."

"Delighted," murmured the Saint, bowing, arid now there was something faintly mocking about his smile. "On the whole, I don't see why the social amenities shouldn't be observed, even in a vendetta."

Miss Girton excused herself soon after, and the Saint smoked a cigarette and chatted lightly and easily with Patricia Holm. He was an entertaining talker, and he did not introduce any more dark and horrific allusions into his remarks. Nevertheless, he caught the girl looking at him from time to time with a kind of mixture of perplexity, apprehension, and interest, and was hugely delighted.

At last he rose to go, and she accompanied him to the gate.

"You seem quite sane," she said bluntly as they went down the path. "What was the idea of talking all that rot?"

He looked down at her, his eyes dancing. "All my life," he replied, "I have told the truth. It is a great advantage, because if you do that nobody ever takes you seriously."

"But talking about murders and revolvers — "

"Perhaps," said the Saint, with that mocking smile, "it will increase the prominence of the part which I hope to play in your thoughts from now onward if I tell you that from this morning the most strenuous efforts will be made to kill me. On the other hand, of course, I shall not be killed, so you mustn't worry too much about me. I mean, don't go off your feed or lie awake all night or anything like that."

"I'll try not to," she said lightly.

"You don't believe me," accused Templar sternly.

She hesitated.

"Well — "

"One day," said the Saint severely, "you will apologize for your unbelief.”

He gave her a stiff bow and marched away so abruptly that she gasped.

It was exactly one o'clock when he arrived home at the Pill Box, and Orace was flustered and disapproving.

"If ya' 'adn't bin 'ome punctual," said Orace, "I'd 'a' bin out looking fer yer corpse. It ain't fair ter give a man such a lotta worry. Yer so careless I wonder the Tiger 'asn't putcha out 'arf a dozen times."

"I've met the most wonderful girl in the world," said Simon impenitently. "By all the laws of adventure, I'm bound to have to save her life two or three times during the next ten days. I shall kiss her very passionately in the last chapter. We shall be married — "