Simon Templar, however, declined to let these portents oppress his gay recklessness. There seemed to be some reorganisation going on among the ungodly, following the unfortunate case of mistaken identity, and it occurred to the Saint that the fun was losing the boisterous whole-heartedness which had ennobled its early exuberance. No sooner had this chastening thought struck him than he set out to restore the former state of affairs. Creeping along towards the main gate, where he expected to find a guard posted, he almost fell over a man crouching by a tree. Templar had the sentinel by the throat before he could cry out; then, releasing the grip of one hand, he firmly but unmistakably tweaked the man’s nose. Before the sentinel had recovered from the surprise, the Saint had thrown him into a thorny bush and was sprinting for the cover on the other side of the drive. He had scarcely gained the gloom of another clump of bushes before the man’s bellow of rage drifted like music to his ears. The cry was taken up from four different points, and the Saint chuckled. A moment later he was frozen into immobility by the sound of a voice from the house rising above the clamour. “Stop shouting, you blasted fools! Kahn—come here!” “Tush!” murmured the Saint. “I can’t have dotted you a very stiff one, honey, but it certainly hasn’t improved your temper!” He waited, listening, but he could make nothing of the mutter of voices. Then came the muffled sounds of someone running across the lawn, followed by the dull thud of a wooden bar being thrown back. Then a clinking of metal. Suddenly there was a snuffling whine, which sank again into a more persistent snuffing. The whine was taken up in three other different keys. Abruptly, the fierce deep-throated baying of a great hound rent the night air. Then there was only a hoarse whimpering. “Damn their eyes!” said Templar softly. “This is where, item, one Saint, slides off in the direction of his evening bread and milk.” Even then he was fumbling for the bolts which held the heavy main gates. He had one back and was wrestling with the other when a dog whimpered eagerly only a few yards away. The Saint tore desperately at the metal, thanking his gods for the darkness of the night, and the bolt shot back. At the same instant there was a thunderous knocking on the door, and a vociferous barking replaced the whining of blood-hounds temporarily distracted from the scent. “To be continued in our next, I think,” grinned the Saint. He pulled back the heavy door. “So glad you’ve come, brothers,” remarked the Saint in loud and hospitable accents. “We’re hunting a real live burglar. Care to lend the odd paw?” “Quietly,” advised a voice.