“I’ll git sum men from the village to ’av a look,” he promised. “Ain’t nothink we can do fer im fee _is_ dahn there—’e’d uv gorn howers ago. . . .” She leaned weakly against the wall, eyes closed and the tears starring on her cheeks, while Orace tried in his rough but kindly manner to console her. She hardly heard a word he said. The Saint gone? A terrifying emptiness ached her heart. It was horrible to think of. Could a man like him be meant for such an end—to die alone in the unanswering darkness, drowned like a rat? He would have kept afloat for a long time, but if he had been alive and down there then he would have shouted back to them. Perhaps he had struck his head in the fall. . . . And then, slowly, a change came over her. There was still that hurtful lump in her throat, and the dead numbness of her heart, but she was no longer trembling. Instead, she found herself cold and quiet. The darkness was speckled with dancing, dizzy splashes of red. . . . This was the Tiger’s doing—he was the man who had sent Simon Templar to his death. And, with a bitter, dead, icy certainty, Patricia Holm knew that she would never rest until she had found the Tiger. “Come along, Miss Patricia,” pleaded Orace. “It aint so bad—we don’t _know_ ’e ever went dahn. Lemme tyke yer back, anjer can lie on the bed while I go explorin; an’ as soons ever I ears anythink I’ll come an tell ya.” “No.” She snapped out the word in a voice that was as clear and strong as a tocsin. “There ain’t nothink——” “There is,” said Patricia. Her hands closed fiercely on Orace’s shoulders. “There is. _We’ve got to go on with the job._ It’s up to us. It’s what he’d have wished—he wouldn’t have had any patience with our going home to weep in our corner and chuck in the towel and let the Tiger get away. If the Saint gave his life to get the Tiger, we can’t waste the sacrifice. Orace,” she said—“will you carry on with me?” He only hesitated a moment; then she heard him suck in his breath. “Yes, Miss Patricia,” said Orace. “I guess yer right—we carn’t let the Tiger get awy wiv it, and we carn’t let Mr. Templar ave gorn under fer nuffin. An fees gorn, I guess yer must inerit Orace, miss. I’m on.” He paused. “But adn’t we better get told uv Dr. Carn, miss? ’E’s a detective, really, Mr. Templar tole me, an ’e’s after the Tiger.” “I suppose so. . . . We must hurry!” They passed through the village, and Patricia set off up the hill at a raking pace, with Orace toiling gamely along just behind. Carn’s cottage was in darkness, and the girl fairly flew to the front door and tugged at the bell furiously. She kept it up for a full minute, but no one answered, though they could hear the metallic clamour reverberating through the house. “He’s away,” she said flatly. The man could see her white face and compressed lips.