The girl rushed into the pause, for she already had a good estimate of the Saint’s perverse sense of fun, and dreaded its irresponsibility. She felt that at any moment he would produce a revolver and ask if they knew anyone worth murdering. “Algy, be an angel and go and tell Aunt Agatha to hurry up.” “That is Mynheer Hans Bloem’s nephew,” observed the Saint calmly as the door closed behind the talkative one. “He is thirty-four. He lived for some years in America; in the City of London he is known as a man with mining property in Transvaal.” Patricia was astonished. “You know more about him than I do,” she said. “I make it my business to pry into my neighbour’s affairs,” he answered solemnly. “It mayn’t be courteous, but it’s cautious.” “Perhaps you know all about me?” she was tempted to challenge him. He turned on her a clear blue eye which held a mocking gleam. “Only the unimportant things. That you were educated at Mayfield. That Miss Girton isn’t your aunt, but a very distant cousin. That you’ve led a very quiet life, and travelled very little. You’re dependent on Miss Girton, because she has the administration of your property until you’re twenty-five. That is for another five years.” “Are you aware,” she demanded dangerously, “that you’re most impertinent?” He nodded. “Quite unpardonably,” he admitted. “I can only plead in excuse that when there’s a price on one’s head one can’t be too particular about one’s acquaintances.” And he looked meditatively at the yellow-golden contents of his glass, which he had held untasted since it was given him. “Your health,” he wished her; and, as he set down the empty glass, he smiled and added: “At least I’ve no fear of you.” She had no time to find an adequate answer before Algy returned with Miss Girton and a tall, thin, leather-faced man who was introduced as Mr. Bloem. “Pleased to meet you,” murmured the Saint. “So sorry T. T. Deeps are going badly in the market, but this is just the time to make your corner.” Bloem started, and his spectacles fell off and dangled at the length of their black watered ribbon as the Boer stared blankly at Simon Templar. “You must be very much on the inside in the City, Mr. Templar,” said Bloem. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” agreed Simon, with his most saintly smile. Then he was being introduced to a new arrival, Sir Michael Lapping. The ex-judge shook hands heartily, peering short-sightedly into the Saint’s face. “You remind me of a man I once met in the Old Bailey—and I’m hanged if I can remember whether it was a professional encounter or not.” “I was just going to,” said the Saint blandly, if a trifle cryptically. “His name was Harry the Duke, and you gave him seven years. He escaped abroad six years ago, but I hear he’s been back in England some months. Be careful how you go out after dark.”