Already he had worked the cigarette-case from his pocket and cut through the cords which had bound his hands, though it had been a long and difficult feat. Now he had slid forward in the chair and tucked his legs well back, and he was patiently sawing away at the ropes which pinioned his ankles. “You see,” said the Saint, in the same leisured tone, “we are all, as you recently observed, liable to make our mistakes, and you have made three very big ones. You must understand, my seraph, that your own loathing for melodrama is only equalled by my love for it, and I think I can say that I staged this little conversazione simply for my own diversion. It seemed to me that this adventure ought to finish off in a worthily dramatic manner, and if all goes well you’ll have to bear the agony of watching enough melodrama concentrated into the next few minutes to fill a book. Things, from approximately now onwards, will go with a kick strong enough to set the Lyceum gasping. How does that appeal to you, beloved?” “I’ll tell you when I hear,” said Bittle brusquely, but the Saint declined to be hurried. “The speechifying,” he remarked, “will now come from the principal shareholder, so please don’t fluster me. Sit down and listen—you’ve had your turn. . . . Well, here we all are, just like a happy family, and exactly where I wanted you all. I grant you I took a big risk, but I had to do it to get the scene nicely set and the audience all worked up and palpitating in their pews. Also, it happened to be necessary to pass a little time before the moment was ripe for trotting out the big thrill. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll send up the first balloon.” The Saint paused, and smiled from Bloem to Bittle. “Where is Harry the Duke?” If he had detonated a charge of thermite under their feet he could not have produced a greater sensation. The men looked from one to another, suspicion and rage and fear chasing over their faces deliriously. For a space there was an electric silence, while the Saint leaned back in his chair, smiling beatifically, and felt the last strand of rope break away from his ankles. Then the storm broke loose. Bittle reached forward and pawed at Bloem’s shoulder frenziedly. “What’s happened to Harry?” he snarled. Bloem jumped to his feet and struck down Bittle’s hand. “Leave me alone!” Bloem’s nerves were raw and jagged. “It isn’t my fault—you never asked me, and you’ve been too busy talking yourself for me to tell you.” He glared round at the Saint. “That meddling puppy got me—I was just taking Harry some food—the door was open, and he got me. I knew he’d found Harry!”