“My name’s Maggs,” he blustered. “But I shall call you Maggie,” insisted the Saint. “It’s more matey, and it suits you better. And really I didn’t mean to be rude about your face. You’ve got a nice kind face, like a cow.” Mr. Maggs turned away with a growl, and stalked over to the girl. Then the Saint was afraid, and the veins stood out purply on his forehead as he wrestled with his bonds. Maggs took the girl’s chin in his thick fingers and tilted up her face, leering down at her. “You might’ve killed me,” he said—“hitting me like that. But I’ll make you apologise later, and I like my apologies sweet.” “Sit down, Maggs,” snapped Bittle. Maggs still persisted. “Give us a kiss to be getting on with, like a good girl.” “Sit—down—Maggs!” Bittle was on his feet, and there was death in his hand. Grumbling, Mr. Maggs lurched into a chair and sat staring at Patricia in his ugly way. Bloem went round to the chair opposite Maggs, but Bittle remained standing at one end of the table. The Saint sat at the other end. Bittle paused for a moment, and the men grouped round the walls fidgeted into stillness. A macabre atmosphere of fiendish cold-bloodedness began to fill the room. It came from the hate-smouldering eyes of all those silent men, and it clouded malevolently behind the stocky figure of John Bittle. Bittle was posing at the end of the table, waiting for the theatrical effect of the gathering to tense up to a nerve-tearing pitch, and a sensitive man could have felt the silence keying up to the point at which unreasoning terror crowds in like a foul vapour. Seconds throbbed away in that pulsating suspense. . . . The Saint cleared his throat. “Rising to address this general meeting at the close of such a successful year,” he prompted, “I feel—— Go on, Bittle. Declare the dividend, and make sure all your braces buttons are safe before you bow to the applause.” His gently mocking tones broke down some of the tension. He looked across at the girl, and she smiled back. “I’m not taking any notice,” she said in a clear voice. “He’s only indulging his love for melodrama.” “Melodrama,” replied Bittle, “is a thing for which I have an instinctive loathing. Yet, in a situation such as this, it is very hard to avoid overstepping the bounds of banality. However, I will try to be as precise and to the point as possible.” He fixed his malignant gaze on the Saint. “This man, Templar, whom you see, has elected to interfere in matters which do not concern him. By a succession of miracles, he has so far managed to avoid the various arrangements which we have made for disposing of him; but now, on the open sea, I hardly think he can escape. He has put us to great inconvenience, and I don’t think anyone here has any cause to bear him any good will. While he lives, no one here is safe. I believe I am merely the spokesman of everyone present when I say that he must die.”