“Quite a good curtain,” he remarked. He looked at the Tiger, and smiled ruefully. “I congratulate you, Algy—you had me guessing all the time. Well, it’s been a good dust-up. . . . And now may I undo Orace?” “Certainly.” Simon walked up to Bittle and took Anna and Belle from the man’s pockets. In a few quick slashes Orace was free and chafing his hands and stamping up and down to restore the circulation. Then the Saint replaced the knives in their sheaths and went over to Patricia. He took her in his arms and kissed her; and, the reaction coming at last, she clung to him like a child, and the Saint was murmuring soothing and meaningless things to stop her trembling. “Now, Mr. Templar,” said the Tiger, “you may take your friends and get away in one of the boats. I am staying behind to settle accounts with _my_ friends.” Simon passed the girl over to Orace. “I’ll follow in a moment.” Patricia went, with Orace’s protecting arm around her, but the Tiger stopped them at the door and took the girl’s hand. “You will never be able to forgive me,” he said, “and I am only thankful, now, that the power to do you any harm was taken away from me. I am a bad man, and I have blood on my hands, but you are the first woman who ever tempted me to forget my chivalry.” He kissed her hand, and then Orace led her away. The Tiger looked at Simon. “It’s a queer whim,” he said—“but I should like to shake hands with you.” “You make it difficult for me,” answered the Saint. “I’m rather sorry you’ve taken things so sportingly. But I’ll shake hands for that very reason.” The Saint held out his hand and smiled . . . _Crack!_ The bullet actually grazed Simon’s arm, and he saw Algy’s eyes glaze over suddenly. The Saint was still holding the Tiger’s hand. A great silence followed the reverberation of the shot, and in that silence, without a word, the Tiger swayed and toppled to the floor. He lay there on his back, and above his heart, in the dark stuff of the bathing costume which he still wore, a darker stain was spreading. . . . The Saint bent over him, but the man was dead. Simon took in the situation out of the corner of his eye. Maggs and Bloem were crouching back against the bulkhead, but Bittle stood up, still holding the smoking revolver which he had snatched from the floor while the Tiger’s attention was distracted. The Saint straightened up, and in the same movement Anna flashed from her sheath to his hand and whistled across the saloon like a humming flake of light. It drove into Bittle’s exposed wrist, severing flesh and sinew and grating on the bone, for the Saint could throw knives with unerring accuracy. Bittle’s hand relaxed limply. He dropped the revolver and flinched back, clawing at the knife which still hung from his arm. The Saint was standing across the Tiger’s body with both the Tiger’s automatics trained on the little group.