The rope was brought, and Simon’s hands were tied securely behind his back. The man knew his job, and, since he was the gentleman whose nose the Saint had taken liberties with, he did not consider the prisoner’s comfort at all. The cords bit savagely into Simon’s wrists, tightened up by a violent hand, but the Saint only smiled. “Mind you don’t break the rope,” he said solicitously. The man knelt down to bind the Saint’s ankles, but the Saint, without any haste or heat, put his foot in the man’s face and pushed him over. “If there’s no objection,” he murmured, “I’ll sit down first.” He crossed the saloon nonchalantly and took one of the swivel chairs. Then he let the seaman tie his ankles together. The same brutal force was exerted there, and when the operation was complete the man straightened and deliberately struck Simon on the mouth. The Saint did not move, and the man spat in his face. “I congratulate you,” said the Saint in a low voice. “You are the first man that has ever done that to me, and I am pleased to think that before morning you will make the thirteenth man I have killed.” “That’ll do,” rapped Bittle, as the man raised his fist again. “Tie up his servant.” Orace clenched his hands and looked round belligerently. “Cummernava try!” he challenged. Orace was game enough, but there were men all round him, and he could only knock two of them flying before the rest were clinging to his arms and legs and bearing him, still struggling and swearing sulphurously, to the floor. He was trussed up even more comprehensively than the Saint, perhaps because his cruder form of defiance was more understandable to the inferior mentalities of the guard; and then one of the men was sent to bring in the girl, and Simon braced himself up for the meeting. Patricia walked into the saloon with her head held high, but her calm was not proof against the sight of the Saint’s bruised face and the thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth. “Simon!” she sobbed, and would have run to him, but two of the guard clutched at her and dragged her back against the wall. “It’s all right, old darling,” said the Saint urgently. “Don’t let the swine see you break down. . . . I’m not hurt. Just been in a vulgar brawl, and it’s nothing to what the blister who did it will look like when I’ve finished with him. . . . Now, Pat, old thing, cast an eye over that nasty object across the way. It’s old fat Bittle himself, and he’s going to make a speech about his triumph—I can see it written all over the boil he calls his face.” Bittle nodded. “You must confess,” he said, “that I have some cause to be satisfied with the conclusion of our little rivalry.” “Conclusion my sock-suspenders!” snorted the Saint. “I haven’t started yet!”