“Well, well,” he murmured, “to err is human, is not it? But tell me, Dr. Carn, why you allow an automatic pistol to spoil the set of that beautiful coat? Are you afraid of a scarabæus 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 marvellously. . . .” 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 and 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 After Orace had served coffee and withdrawn, Carn produced a cigar-case and offered it to the Saint.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 arm-chair. “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 enquiries 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?”