Bittle was a fraction quicker on the uptake. The Saint caught Patricia’s eye and made an almost imperceptible motion towards the window; and at that moment the millionaire’s nerve faltered for a split second, and he began to turn his head. In that instant the Saint sogged the statuette into the back of Bittle’s skull—without any great force, but very scientifically. In another lightning movement, he had jerked up the chair and flung it crashing into the light, and blackness fell on the room with a totally blinding density. The Saint sprang towards the window. “Pat!” he breathed urgently. He touched her groping hand and got the french window open in a trice. There was a hoarse shouting in the garden and in the corridor, and suddenly the door burst open and a shaft of light fell across the room, revealing the limp form of Bittle sprawled in the arm-chair. A couple of burly figures blocked the doorway, but Patricia and Simon were out of the beam thrown by the corridor lights. Before she realised what was happening, the girl felt herself snatched up in a pair of steely arms. Within a bare five seconds of the blow that removed Sir John Bittle from the troubles of that evening the Saint was through the window and racing across the lawn, carrying Patricia Holm as he might have carried a child. The complete manœuvre was carried through with so faultless a technique that Simon Templar, for all his burden, passed right between the two men who were waiting outside the french window, and the ambush was turned into a cursing pursuit. As soon as that danger was past, Simon paused for a moment to set the girl down again; and then, still keeping hold of her hand, he ran her towards the obscurity of a clump of bushes at the end of the lawn. They had a flying start, and they reached the shrubbery with a lead of half a dozen yards. Without hesitation the Saint plunged into the jungle, finding by instinct the easiest path between the bushes, doubling and dodging like a wild animal and dragging Patricia after him with no regard for the twigs and branches that ripped their clothes to shreds and grazed blood from the exposed skin. Presently he stopped dead, and she stood close beside him, struggling to control her breathing, while he listened for the sounds of pursuit. They could hear men ploughing clumsily through the shrubbery, calling to-one another, crashing uncertainly about. Then, as the hunters realised that their quarry was running no longer, the noise died down, and was succeeded by a tense and straining hush. Patricia heard Simon whispering in her ear. “We’re right by the wall. I’m going to get you over. Go home and don’t say anything to your aunt. If I don’t turn up in an hour, tell Dr. Carn. Get me? Don’t, whatever you do, start raising hell in less than an hour.” “But aren’t you coming?” Her lips were right against his ear, so that she could feel his head move negatively, though she could not see it.