“Thanks,” said the Saint, “I’ll have one when I get home. I’m very particular about the people I drink with. Once I had a friend who was terribly careless that way, and one day they fished him out of the canal in Soerabaja. I should hate to be fished out of anywhere.” “To show there’s no ill-feeling. . . .” “If I drank your whisky, son,” said the Saint, “I’m so afraid there might be all the ill-feeling we could deal with.” Bittle came back to the table and crushed the stump of his cigar into an ashtray. He looked at the Saint, and something about the Saint’s quietness sent that draughty shiver prickling again up Bittle’s vertebræ, The Saint was still exactly where he had stood when he emerged from behind the curtain; the Saint did not seem at all embarrassed; and the Saint seemed to have all the time in the world to kill. The Saint, in short, looked as though he was waiting for something and in no particular hurry about it, and Bittle was beginning to get worried. “Hardly conduct befitting a gentleman, shall we say, Mr. Templar?” Bittle temporised. “No,” said the Saint fervently. “Thank the Lord I’m not a gentleman. Gentlemen are such snobs. All the gentlemen around here, for instance, refuse to know you—at least, that’s what I’m told—but I don’t mind it in the least. I hope we shall get on excellently together, and that this meeting will be but the prelude to a long and enjoyable acquaintance, to mutual satisfaction and profit. Yours faithfully.” “You leave me very little choice, Mr. Templar,” said Bittle, and touched the bell. The Saint remained where he was, still smiling, until there was a knock on the door and a butler who looked like a retired prize-fighter came in. “Show Mr. Templar the door,” said Bittle. “But how hospitable!” exclaimed the Saint, and then, to the surprise of everyone, he walked coolly across the room and followed the butler into the passage. The millionaire stood by the table, almost gasping with astonishment at the ease with which he had broken down such an apparently impregnable defence. “I know these bluffers,” he remarked with ill-concealed relief. His satisfaction was of very short duration, for the end of his little speech coincided with the sounds of a slight scuffle outside and the slamming of a door. While Bittle stared, the Saint walked in again through the window, and his cheery “Well, well, _well_!” brought the millionaire’s head round with a jerk as the door burst open and the butler returned. “Nice door,” murmured the Saint. He was breathing a little faster, but not a hair of his sleek head was out of place. The pugilistic butler, on the other hand, was not a little dishevelled, and appeared to have just finished banging his nose on to something hard. The butler had a trickle of blood running down from his nostrils to his mouth, and the look in his eyes was not one of peace on earth or goodwill towards men.