“I’ll suppose anything you like,” assented Simon. “I know you’ve got some funny game on; and I know you aren’t one of those dude detectives, because I’ve made enquiries. You aren’t even Secret Service. I know something about your record, and I gather you haven’t come to Baycombe because you got an idea you’d like to vegetate in rural England and grow string beans. You aren’t the sort that goes anywhere unless they can see easy money or big trouble waiting for collection.” “I might have decided to quit before I stopped something.” “You might—but your sort doesn’t quit while there’s a kick left in ’em. Besides, what do you think I’ve been doing all the time I’ve been down here?” “Huntin’ the elusive Wugga-Wugga, presumably,” drawled the Saint. Carn made a gesture of impatience. “I’ve told you you’re clever,” he said, “and I meant every letter of it—in capital italics. But you don’t have to pretend you think I’m a fool, because I know you know better. You’re here for what you can get, and I’ve a good idea what that is. If I’m right, it’s my job to get in your way all I can, unless you work in with me. Templar, I’m paying you the compliment of putting the cards on the table, because from what I hear I’d rather work with you than against you. Now, why can’t you come across?” The Saint had sunk deeper into his arm-chair. The room was lighted only by the smoky oil lamp that Orace had brought in with the coffee, for the sky had clouded over in the late afternoon and night had come on early. “There are just one million reasons why I shouldn’t come across,” said the Saint tranquilly. “They were lost to the Confederated Bank of Chicago quite a time ago, and I want them all to myself, my good Carn.” “You don’t imagine you could get away with it?” “I can think of no limits to my ingenuity in getting away with things,” said the Saint calmly. He moved in the shadows, and a moment later he said quietly: “There is a million-and-first argument which prevents me coming across just now, Carn—and that is that I never allow Tiger Cubs to listen-in on my confessions.” “What do you mean?” asked Carn. “I mean,” said the Saint in a clear strong voice, “that at this moment there’s some son-of-a-gun peeking through that embrasure. I’ve got him covered, and if he so much as blinks I’m going to shoot his eyelids off!” Chapter III A Little Melodrama Carn sprang to his feet, his hand flying to his hip, and the Saint laughed softly. “He’s gone,” Templar said. “He ducked as soon as I spoke. But maybe now you realise how hard it is not to be killed when someone’s really out for your blood. It looks so easy in stories, but I’m finding it a bit of a strain.” The Saint was talking in his usual mild leisurely way, but there was nothing leisurely about his movements. He had turned out the lamp at the same instant as Carn had jumped up, and his words came from the direction of the embrasure.