“In that case, Templar, you would appear to have sacrificed your chance for ever. . . . But your diagnosis, in a way, was quite correct—I was about to outline to you the programme which I propose to follow with regard to your immediate future.” “Careers for our Boys,” quoth Simon irreverently. Bittle clasped his hands across his stomach. “Before we proceed with that interesting exposition, however,” he said, “I think there are two members of the company who would like to be present.” He turned to one of the guard. “Lambert, will you go and see if Mr. Bloem and Mr. Maggs have recovered sufficiently to join us?” The man left the saloon, and there was silence for a moment. Presently Bittle said: “While we’re waiting, perhaps you’d care to tell me how you managed to escape?” The Saint grinned. “Nothing is easier. When I was an infant, a celebrated clairvoyant and cardsharper told me that I had been born under the sign of the Zodiac known to astronomers as Humpty Dumpty and to the lay public as the Egg. Taking his words to heart, I early applied myself to the study of the science of Levitation, in the hope of averting the doom which had been prophesied for me. I succeeded so well, by virtue of years of practice and self-denial and hours of fasting and prayer, that I can now back myself to bounce to almost unlimited heights. Consequently, when I fell into your little trap, I was able to fall out again, if you get the idea. I think that’s the whole story—except that an aunt of mine once had an under-gardener whose nephew knew a man whose father had once shaken hands with a lady who remembered meeting a dentist in Maida Vale whose second cousin twice removed was the divorced wife of a Manchester stockbroker who once ate a pint of whelks with a lawn-mower on Wigan Pier for a bet. In fact,” went on Simon, warming to his subject, “we are a very distinguished family. Another aunt of mine had gout and a mother-in-law whose cook married a gas-fitter who——” “Spare us your humour,” pleaded Bittle wearily. “It doesn’t amuse me.” “But it amuses me!—as the actress said on an auspicious occasion,” said the Saint, and would have continued in that vein if Bloem and Maggs had not arrived at that moment. Both looked much the worse for wear, and their heads bore abundant tokens of the cold water which had been liberally used in resuscitating them. In addition, Bloem’s forehead was disfigured by a bruise which was rapidly taking to itself all the brighter hues of the rainbow, and the way he glared at the Saint was not friendly. “The compliments of the season, Mynheer,” drawled Simon. “And who’s the other little ray of sunshine, Mr. Chairman?” “Our captain, Mr. Maggs,” Bittle introduced that injured warrior suavely. “You have not met him before, Templar, but our dear friend Miss Holm knocked him out an hour or two ago.” “Delighted!” murmured the Saint. “She seems to have made a good job of it, Maggie—or did you always look like that?” Mr. Maggs lowered.