It was left for the Saint to scale the wall itself. Fortunately he was tall, and he found that by standing on tiptoe and straining upwards he was able to hook his fingers over the top. Satisfied, he took off his coat and held it with the tab between his teeth; then, reaching up, he got a grip and hauled himself to the full contraction of his muscles. Holding on with one hand, he flung his coat over the broken glass set into the top of the wall, and so scrambled over, dropping to the ground on the other side like a cat. The Saint moved swiftly along the wall to the back entrance which he had observed, conducted a light-fingered search for burglar alarms, and found one which he disconnected. Then he unbarred the door and left it slightly ajar in readiness for his retreat. That done, he went down on his knees and crawled towards the house. If the light had been strong enough to make him visible, his method of progress would have seemed to border on the antics of a lunatic, for he wriggled forward six inches at a time, his hands waving and weaving about gently in front of him. In this way he evaded two fine alarm wires, one stretched a few inches off the ground and the other at the level of his shoulder. He rose under the wall of the house, chuckling inaudibly, but he was taking no chances. “Now let’s take a look at the warrior who looks after himself so carefully,” said the Saint, but he said it to himself. The side of the house on which he found himself was in darkness, and after a second’s thought he worked rapidly round to the south. As soon as he rounded the angle of the building he saw two patches of light on the grass, and crept along till he reached the french windows from which they were thrown. The curtains were half-drawn, but he was able to peer through a gap between the hangings and the frames. He was looking into the library—a large, lofty, oak-panelled room, luxuriously furnished. It was quite evident that Sir John Bittle’s parsimony did not interfere with his indulgence of his personal tastes. The carpet was a rich Turkey with fully a four-inch pile; the chairs were huge and inviting, upholstered in brown leather; a costly bronze stood in one corner, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. These things the Saint noticed in one glance, before anything human caught his eye. A moment later he saw the man who could only have been Bittle himself. The late wholesale grocer was stout: the Saint could only guess at height, since Bittle was hunched up in one of the enormous chairs, but the millionaire’s pink neck overflowed his collar in all directions. Sir John Bittle was in dinner dress, and he was smoking a cigar. “Charming sketch of home life of Captain of Canning Industry,” murmured the Saint, again to his secret soul. “Unconventional Portraits of the Great. Picture on Back Page.” The Saint had thought Bittle was alone, but just as he was about to move along he heard the millionaire’s fat voice remark: