He picked up his tray and stalked off towards the kitchen, and the girl stared after him in puzzlement. Orace, though a martinet, was only actually rude to Tiger Cubs and detectives: she had already seen through his mask of ferocity and discovered the kindly humanist underneath. On the last occasion of his escorting her home his manner had been even paternal, for Simon Templar’s friends were Orace’s friends. But this, now, was a ruffled Orace. She followed him to the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?” she inquired cheerfully. “Naow, don’t think sa, miss,” he replied gruffly. “I’m use ter mannidging alone—thanks.” “Then could you tell me where Mr. Templar’s gone? I could walk on and meet him.” Orace hammered the point of a tin-opener into a can of salmon with quite unnecessary violence. “Dunno anythink about it,” he said. “You can betcha life, miss, ’e’ll be ’ome when ’e said ’e would, if ’e can ’umanly possibly do ut. Most thunderin’ punctual man alive, ’e is, an ’e’ll come in the door just when the clock strikes. So yer got nuffin ta worry about.” He ended on a more gentle note, but there was no doubt that he was very upset. “Why—has anything happened to make you think I’d be likely to worry?” Patricia queried, with her heart thumping a little faster. “Was he going to do anything special this afternoon?” “_Naaow!_” snarled Orace, unconvincingly derisive, and went on hacking at the tin. The girl went back to the sitting-room and dropped into a chair. The Saint’s cigarette-box was handy to her elbow, and she took a cigarette and lighted it thoughtfully. Whether she was intended to worry or not, there could be no denying the obvious fact that Orace was distinctly agitated. She found it was twenty minutes and a bit past seven, and wondered if the Saint would be as punctual as Orace had predicted, and whether they would have to assume that something had happened to him if he hadn’t arrived within five minutes of the half-hour. Where could he have gone? There was nothing to be done about the Tiger’s ship at that hour. Had he gone on a preliminary reconnaissance of the island? Had he taken it into his head to inspect the Old House at closer quarters? Or had he gone over to beard Bittle or Bloem again—the sort of senseless bravado that would give a man like him a thrill? She watched the minute hand of her watch travel down to the twenty-five-past mark, and reflected that she had been spending a good deal of her time lately with one eye on the clock, wondering if the Saint was going to be punctual or not. Heavens, he wasn’t the only one who could be worried! Orace came in and laid a place for her. Then he tugged an enormous silver turnip from his trousers pocket. “In a minnit er two,” he said. “Thunderin’ punctual, ’e always is.” He nodded to her encouragingly, and strutted out. She heard his boots on the concrete floor outside, and guessed that he had gone to the entrance to see if he could spot the Saint coming up the hill.