“You see, Mr. Templar, if you look in the cigar-box you will find that the bottom sinks back a trifle under quite a light pressure. In fact, it acts as a bell-push. There are now three men in the garden as well as four bloodhounds, and two more in the passage outside this room. And the only dog I can imagine myself burying to-morrow morning is an insolent young puppy who’s chosen to poke his nose into my business.” “Well, well, _well_,” said the Saint, his hands in his pockets. “Well, well, WELL!” Sir John Bittle settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair, pulled an ashstand to a convenient position, and continued the leisurely smoking of his cigar. The Saint, looking at him in a softly speculative fashion, had to admire the man’s nerve. The Saint smiled; and then Patricia’s hand on his arm brought him back with a jerk to the stern realities of the situation. He took the hand in his, pressed it, and turned the Saintly smile on her in encouragement. Then he was weighing Bittle’s automatic in a steady hand. “Carrying on the little game of Let’s Pretend,” suggested Simon, “let’s suppose that I sort of pointed this gun at you, all nervous and upset, and in my agitation I kind of twiddled the wrong knob. I mean, suppose it went off, and you were in the way? Wouldn’t it be awkward!” Bittle shook his head. “Terribly,” he agreed. “And you’re such a mystery to Baycombe already that I’m afraid they’d talk. You know how unkind gossip can be. Why, they’d be quite capable of saying you did it on purpose.” “There’s something in that,” said Templar mildly, and he put the gun back in his pocket. “Then suppose I took my little knife and began playing about with it, and it flew out of my hand and took off your ear? Or suppose it sliced off the end of your nose? It’s rotten to have only half a nose or only one ear. People stop and stare at you in the street, and so forth.” “And think of my servants,” said Bittle. “They’re all very attached to me, and they might be quite unreasonably vindictive.” “That’s an argument,” conceded the Saint seriously. “And now suppose you suggest a game?” Bittle moved to a more comfortable position and thought carefully before replying. The time ticked over, but the Saint was too old a hand to be rattled by any such primitive device, and he leaned nonchalantly against the wall and waited patiently for Bittle to realise that the cat-and-mouse gag was getting no laughs that journey. At length Bittle said: “I should be quite satisfied, Mr. Templar, if you would spend a day or two with me, and during that time we could decide on some adequate expression of your regret for your behaviour this evening. As for Miss Holm, she and I can finish our little chat uninterrupted, and then I will see her home myself.” “Um,” murmured the Saint, lounging. “Bit of an optimist, aren’t you?” “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Mr. Templar,” said Bittle cordially. “In fact, I expect your room is already being prepared.” The Saint smiled.