Carn looked at her with a keenness that was unforeseen in a man of his type. “What makes you ask that, Miss Holm?” “Well, he talks a lot about it, doesn’t he?” Carn pursed his lips. “Yes, he does,” he admitted guardedly. “I shouldn’t venture to give a definite opinion at this stage. Might one enquire, first, what Mr. Templar is to you? Is he a particular friend of yours, for instance?” “I’ve known him such a short time,” she replied, as cautiously. “But I must say I like him very much.” “Would it be impertinent to ask if you were in love with him?” pursued Carn; and, seeing her blush, he averted his eyes and babbled on in an embarrassed attempt at a fatherly tone: “I see that it would. But perhaps Mr. Templar is more susceptible. As a friend, you would do him a great service by using whatever influence you have to persuade him of his foolhardiness.” “Then he is in danger?” Carn sighed. “Purely of his own making,” he said. “Mr. Templar has elected to play a very dangerous game. I can’t say any more. Perhaps he’ll tell you himself.” Patricia looked at her watch for the twentieth time. There were still six minutes to pass. Chapter VI The Kindness of the Tiger “Here we are again,” murmured the Saint. “Seeing quite a lot of each other to-night, aren’t we? And how’s the occiput? Not dented beyond repair, I hope.” Bittle inclined his head. “A trifle primitive,” he said urbanely, “but very effective. I have views of my own, however, on the subject of physical violence, which I shall present you with in due course.” “Splendid,” said Templar. He looked around for the man who had been covering him, and bowed to that gentleman with a smile. “Dear old bloomin’ Bloem, of course,” remarked the Saint sociably. “I knew we’d find you in the thick of the fun. Quite one of the dogs of the _dorp_, or village, aren’t you? And, just in case of accidents, would you rather be blipped on the jaw or in the solar plexus? A jolt in the tum-tum is more painful; but, on the other hand the cove who stops one just where his face changes its mind is liable to carry a scar around with him for some time. Just as you like, of course—I always try to oblige my customers in these little details.” “That will do, Mr. Templar,” Bittle’s voice broke in curtly. “I think you’ve talked quite enough for one evening.” “But I haven’t started yet,” complained the Saint. “I was just going to tell one of my favourite stories. Old Bloem’s heard it before, but it might be a new one on you. The one about an Italian gentleman called Fernando, who double-crossed some of the band-o. They got even for this with the aid of a kris—and that was the end of Fernando. Any applause?”