He was one of those men who are little changed by the passage of time: he might have been twenty-five or thirty-five. Studying him very closely—which few took the trouble to do—one gathered that the latter age was more probably right. He was fair, round-faced, pink-and-white. “He was quite tame,” said Patricia. “In fact, I thought he was awfully nice. But he would keep on talking about the terrifying things that he thought were going to happen. He said people were trying to murder him.” “_Dementia persecutoria_,” opined Algy. “What?” The girl shook her head. “He was as sane as anyone I’ve ever met.” “_Extensio cruris paranoia_?” suggested Algy sagely. “What on earth’s that?” she asked. “An irresistible desire to pull legs.” Patricia frowned. “You’ll be thinking I’m crazy next,” she said. “But somehow you can’t help believing him. It’s as if he were daring you to take him seriously.” “Well, if he manages to wake up this backwater I’ll be grateful to him,” said the man. “Are you going to invite me to stay and meet the ogre?” He stayed. Towards one o’clock Patricia sighted Templar coming up the road, and went out to meet him at the gate. He was dressed as he had been the day before, but he had fastened his collar and put on a tie. He greeted her with a smile. “Still alive, you see,” he remarked. “The ungodly prowled around last night, but I poured a bucket of water over him, and he went home. It’s astonishing how easy it is to damp the ardour of an assassin.” “Isn’t that getting a bit stale?” she protested, although she was annoyed to find that the reproof she forced into her tone lacked conviction. “I’m surprised you should say that,” he returned gravely. “Personally, I’m only just beginning to appreciate the true succulence of the jest.” “At least, I hope you won’t upset everybody at lunch,” she said, and his eyes twinkled. “I’ll try to behave,” he promised. “At any other time it would have been a fearful effort, but to-day I’m on my party manners.” There were cocktails in the drawing-room (Baycombe society prided itself on being up to date), and there Algy was brought forward and introduced. “Delighted—delighted—long expected pleasure—what?” he babbled. “Is it really?” asked the Saint guilelessly. Algy screwed a pane of glass into his eye and surveyed the visitor with awe. “So you’re the Mystery Man!” he prattled on. “You don’t mind being called that? I’m sure you won’t. Everybody calls you the Mystery Man, and I honestly think it suits you most awfully well, don’t you know. And fancy taking the Pill Box! Isn’t it too frightfully draughty? But of course you’re one of these strong, hearty he-men we see in the pictures.” “Algy, you’re being rude,” interrupted the girl. “Am I really? Only meant for good-fellowship and all that sort of thing. What? What? No offence, old banana pip, you know, don’t you know.” “Do I? Don’t I?” asked the Saint, blinking.