The Saint realised that Bittle’s panic of a few moments past had been caused by the fear of being involved in a police enquiry rather than by the horror of witnessing a cold-blooded murder. Bittle was quite calm again, but there was no trace of human pity in his faded eyes, and the level tone in which his significant after-thought was delivered would have struck terror into the soul of most men. But the Saint’s nerves were like chilled steel and his optimism was unshakeable. He met Bittle’s eyes steadily, and smiled. “Don’t gamble on it,” advised the Saint. “I’ve lived pretty dangerously for eight years, and nobody’s ever killed me yet. Even the Tiger mightn’t break the record.” “I hope,” said Bittle, “that the Tiger will prove to be as clever as you are.” “Hope on, sonnikins,” said the Saint cheerfully. They had searched him from crown to toe when he came in from the garden, but they had left him his cigarette-case, and for this he was duly thankful. The case was a large one, and carried a double bank of cigarettes. There were some peculiarities about the cigarettes on one side of the case which the Saint had not felt bound to explain to Bittle when he returned it; for several of the victories which Templar had scored against apparently impossible odds in the course of his hectic career as a gentleman adventurer had been due to his habit of invariably keeping at least one card up his sleeve—even when he had not got aces parked in his belt, under his hat, and in the soles of his shoes. Meanwhile, it had not yet come to the showdown, and the Saint did not believe in performing his particular brand of parlour tricks simply to amuse the assembled company. He selected a cigarette from the other side of the case (which in itself was not quite an ordinary case, for one of the edges, which was guarded when the case was shut, was as sharp as a razor) and began to smoke with a sublime indifference to the awkwardness of his predicament.