"You're clever, Templar, but this time you're mistaken, and persisting in your delusion is making you forget your manners."

The Saint favoured Carn with a lazy smile.

"Well, well," he murmured, "to err is human, is it not? But tell me, Dr. Carn, why you allow an automatic pistol to spoil the set of that beautiful coat? Are you afraid of a scarabaeus turning at bay? Or is it that you're scared of a Great White Woolly Wugga-Wugga jumping out of a bush?"

And the Saint swung his heavy staff as though weighing its efficiency as a bludgeon, and the clear blue eyes with that lively devil of mischief glimmering in their depths never left Carn's red face. Carn glared back chokingly.

"Sir," he exploded at length, "let me tell you — "

"I, too, was once an Inspector of Horse Marines to the Swiss Navy," the Saint encouraged him gently; and, when Carn's indignation proved to have become speechless, he added: "But why am I so unsociable? Come along to the Pill Box and have a spot of supper. I'm afraid it'll only be tinned stuff — we stopped having fresh meat since a seagull died after tasting the Sunday joint — but our brandy, is Napoleon …. and Orace grills sardines marvelously….”

He linked his arm in Carn's and urged the naturalist along, chattering irrepressibly. It is an almost incredible tribute to the charm which the Saint could exert, to record that he coaxed Carn into acceptance in three minutes and had him chuckling at a grossly improper limerick by the time they reached the Pill Box.

"You're a card, Templar," said Carn as they sat over Martinis in the sitting room, and the Saint„ raised indulgent eyebrows.

"Because I called your bluff?"

"Because you didn't hesitate.”

"He who hesitates," said the Saint sententiously, "is bossed. No mughopper will ever spiel this baby.

They talked politics arid literature through supper (the Saint had original and heretical views on both Subjects) as dispassionately as the most ordinary men, met together in the most ordinary circumstances, might have done.

After Orace had served coffee and withdrawn, Carn produced a cigar case and offered it to the Saint. Templar looked, and shook his head with a smile.

"Not even with you, dear heart," he said, and Carn was aggrieved.

"There's nothing wrong with them."

"I'm so glad you haven't wasted a cigar, then."

"If I give you my word — "

"I'll take it. But I won't take your cigars,"

Carn shrugged, took one himself and lighted it. The Saint settled himself more comfortably in his armchair.

"I'm glad to see you don't pack a gun yourself," observed the Doctor presently.

"It makes one so unpopular, letting off artillery and things all over Devonshire," said Simon. "You can only do that in shockers: in real life, the police make all sorts of awkward inquiries if you go slaughtering people here and there because they look cock-eyed at you. But I don't advise anyone to bank on my consideration for the nerves of the neighbourhood when I'm in my own home."

Carn sat forward abruptly.

"We've bluffed for an hour and a half by the clock," he said. "Suppose we get down to brass tacks?

"I'll suppose anything you like," assented Simon. "I know you've got some funny game on; and I know you aren't one of those dude detectives, because I've made inquiries. You aren't even Secret Service. I know something about your record, and I gather you haven't come to Baycombe because you got an idea you'd like to vegetate in rural England and grow string beans. You aren't the sort that goes anywhere unless they can see easy money ^0r big trouble waiting for collection."

"I might have decided to quit before I stopped something.”

“You might — but your sort doesn't quit while there's a kick left in 'em. Besides, what do you think I've been doing all the time I've been down here?”

"Huntin’ the elusive Wugga-Wugga, presumably," drawled the Saint,

Carm made a gesture of impatience.

"I've told you you're clever," he said, "and I meant every letter of it — in capital italics. But you don't have to pretend you think I'm a fool, because I know you know better. You're here for what you can get, and I've a good idea what that is. If I'm right, it's my job to get in your way all I can, unless you work in with me. Templar, I'm paying you the compliment of putting the cards on the table, because from what I hear I'd rather work with you than against you. Now, why can't you come across?”

The Saint had sunk deeper into his armchair. The room was lighted only by the smoky oil lamp that Grace had brought in with the coffee, for the sky had clouded over in the late afternoon and night had come on early.

"There are just one million reasons why I shouldn't come across," said the Saint tranquilly. "They were lost to the Confederated Bank of Chicago quite a time ago, and I want them all to myself, my good Carn.”

"You don't imagine you could get away with it?"

"I can think of no limits to my ingenuity in getting away with things," said the Saint calmly.

He moved in the shadows, and a moment later he said quietly:

"There is a million-and-first argument which prevents me coming across just now, Carn — and that is that I never allow Tiger Cubs to listen-in on my confessions."

"What do you mean?" asked Carn.

"I mean," said the Saint in a clear strong voice, "that at this moment there's some son-of-a-gurf peeking through that embrasure. I've got him covered, and if he so much as blinks I'm going to shoot his eyelids off!"

Chapter III

A LITTLE MELODRAMA

Carn sprang to his feet, his hand flying to his hip, and the Saint laughed softly.

"He's gone," Templar said. "He ducked as soon as I spoke. But maybe now you realize how hard it is not to be killed when someone's really out for your blood. It looks so easy in stories, but I'm finding it a bit of a strain."

The Saint was talking in his usual mild, leisurely way, but there was nothing leisurely about his movements. He had turned out the lamp at the same instant as Carn had jumped up, and his words came from the direction of the embrasure.

"Can't see anything. This bunch are as windy as mice trying to nibble a cat's whiskers. I'll take a look outside. Stay right where you are, sonny."

Carn heard the Saint slither out, and there were words in the kitchen. A few seconds later Orace came in, bearing a lighted candle and Clasping his beloved blunderbuss in his free hand. Orace did not speak. He set the candle down in a corner, so that the light did not interfere with his view of the embrasure, and waited patiently with the enormous revolver cocked and at the ready.

"You have an exciting life," remarked Carn, and Orace turned an unfriendly eye — and the revolver — upon the Doctor.

'"Um," said Orace noncommittally.

The Saint was back in ten minutes by the clock.

"Bad huntin'," he murmured. "It's as black as coffee outside, and he must have hared for home as soon as I scared him.... Beer, Orace."

"Aye, aye, sir," said the silent one,and faded out as grimly as he had entered.

Carn gazed thoughtfully after the retreating figure with its preposterous armoury and its preposterous strut.

"Any more in the menagerie?" he inquired.

"Nope," said the Saint laconically.

He was relighting the lamp, and the flare of the match threw his face into high relief for an instant. Carn became more thoughtful. His life had been devoted to dealing with men of all sorts and conditions. He had known many clever men, not a few dangerous men, and a number of mysterious men, but at that moment he wondered if he had ever met a man who looked more cleverly and dangerously and mysteriously competent to deal with any kind of trouble that happened to be floating around.