The Saint looked about him in his mild way, as though he literally expected an outburst of clapping. Nobody moved. Bloem still had his automatic accurately trained on the Saint, and the Boer’s leathery face betrayed nothing. Bittle had gone ashy pale. The butler and a couple of other hard nuts who had followed the party into the library stood like graven images. “I told you—he knows too much,” said Bloem. “Better not take any chances this time.” “I’m very upset about this,” said Simon earnestly. “That one usually gets a rousing reception. Poor old Fernando—he used up so much energy cursing Tigers and things that he didn’t live quite long enough to tell me where the spondulicks were. ‘Baycombe, in England, Devonshire,’ gasps Fernando, with the haft of the kris sticking out of him, and the blood choking his throat. ‘The old house . . .’ And then he died. Just like in a story-book, and deuced awkward, with so many old and oldish houses lying about. But Fernando certainly hated Tigers, and you can’t blame him.” Bloem raised the gun a trifle, and his knuckles whitened under the brown skin of his hand. “It is easily settled,” he muttered, and the Saint saw death staring him in the face. “No!” shouted Bittle. The millionaire flung himself forward, knocking up the pistol. Bittle was trembling. He mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief, breathing heavily. “You fool!” he jerked. “The girl’s been here—he helped her get away. If anything happens to him she’ll talk. D’you want to put a rope round all our necks?” “You always did argue soundly, Bittle darling,” said the Saint appreciatively. He seated himself on the table, swinging his legs, and the proverbial cucumber would have looked smoking hot beside him. “It must be arranged so as to look like an accident,” said Bittle. “That damned girl will have the police buzzing about our ears unless the circumstances are above suspicion.” Bloem shrugged. “The girl can be silenced,” he stated dispassionately. “You’ll leave the girl alone,” snarled Bittle. “Where’s the Chief?” The Saint saw Bloem’s face convulse with a warning scowl. “He will return later.” “Now, that’s good news,” said Simon. “Am I really going to meet the celebrated Tiger at last? You’ve no idea how much I want to see him. But he’s such an elusive cove—always incog.” “You need have no fear, Mr. Templar,” said Bittle, “that the Tiger will show himself to you unless he is quite certain that you will never be able to use your knowledge against him. I think,” added the millionaire suavely, “that you may expect to meet the Tiger to-night.”