“Very few,” he agreed. “I made a bad one when I presumed your death—but, as you see, that error has been rectified. Even now, Templar, you are a dead man.” The Saint let his gaze travel round the saloon. “Quite comfortable,” he admitted, “but I really thought Heaven would be a bit more luxurious. Besides”—he surveyed the six tough customers who had ranged themselves round him in a semi-circle that fairly bristled with knives and revolvers—“These don’t look like angels; and you don’t, either, my pet, if it comes to that. Do you think I could have missed the bus and arrived in Hell by mistake?” His sodden trousers were shapeless, and the white of his torn shirt was marked with grease, but still, by the exercise of his inimitable gift, he was able to look debonair and immaculate. And, for all the apparently overwhelming odds against him, he retained his air of unshakable confidence. But this time Bittle could see no loophole in the trap in which he had the Saint, and he refused to be awed by anything so intangible as the Saint’s assured bearing. “Have they been searched?” he asked one of the guard, but it was Simon who answered. “I gave up my gun when I surrendered.” “And kept your knife—I remember that trick,” said Bittle. He himself removed Anna, and by making a thorough examination he found also her twin sister strapped to the Saint’s leg. The discovery pleased him. “I’m not making any more mistakes, Templar.” “So glad!” drawled Simon. “May I have my cigarette-case back, please? Anna and Belle aren’t any use to anyone but myself, but the cigarette-case is really silver—I won it in the Open Ludo Tournament at Bournemouth in ’13.” Bittle examined the case, and, failing to find anything suspicious about it, returned it to the Saint, who replaced it in his hip pocket. The Saint turned suddenly on his heel, and the guard sprang back a pace and put up their weapons, and Simon laughed. “Your men aren’t very brave, are they?” he remarked. “I’m unarmed, and each of them looks like a travelling arsenal—but watch!” He feinted at one of the tough-looking customers and the man flinched away. The Saint tweaked his nose ungently, and, wheeling round, tripped up another man and sent him crashing to the floor. Bittle sprang up with an oath, reaching for his revolver, but the Saint turned back with a light chuckle and put up his hands. “Merely a demonstration of moral superiority,” he said airily. “Even now, you see, I can scare you!” “I’ll soon stop that,” Bittle grated, furious at having let himself be alarmed by the exhibition, and pointed to one of the men. “Fetch a rope—we’ll see what he can do when he’s trussed up.” “Anything you like,” said the Saint boastfully. “Houdini is my middle name, and knots mean nothing to me.”