Bittle and Bloem were arguing in low tones at the other end of the room, and both were armed. The pugilistic butler was posted at the door, and it was unlikely that he would be caught napping a second time. The Saint could probably have beaten him in a straight fight, but it would not have been an easy job, and the audience in this case would most certainly interfere. The other two men stood by the french windows, to prevent a repetition of the Saint’s earlier unceremonious exit: they were both hard and husky specimens, and the Saint, weighing up the prospects with a fighter’s eye, decided that that retreat was effectually barred for the time being. There were few men that the Saint, in splendid training, would have hesitated to tackle single-handed, and few men that he would not have backed himself to tie in knots and lay out all neat and tidy inside five minutes, into the bargain; but he had to admit that a team of three heavyweights and a couple of automatics totalled up to something a bit above his form. Wherefore the Saint stayed sitting on the table and placidly smoked his cigarette, for he had never believed in getting worked up before the fireworks started. He looked at his watch, and found that there was a clear half-hour to go before he could expect any help from outside. He blessed his foresight in telling Patricia to go to Carn if anything went wrong, but that was a last resource which the Saint hoped he would not have to call upon. Simon wanted nothing less than to be under any sort of obligation to the detective, and he certainly did not want to give Carn a better hand than the deal had given him. Nevertheless, it was comforting to know that Carn was at hand in case of a hitch—not to mention the admirable Orace, who would shortly be getting restive, even if he had not started to move already. And it was satisfying to find that a similar reflection was cramping the style of the ungodly considerably. The Saint’s meditations were interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the house. The sound was very faint, but the Saint’s hearing was abnormally keen, and he caught what most other men would have missed—the eccentric rhythm of the ringing. He had noted this down and pigeon-holed it in his mind when a knock came on the door and a man entered. He muttered something to Bittle, and the millionaire left the room. Bloem strolled over to the Saint, who welcomed him with a smile. “Our one and only Tiger at last?” Bloem nodded, and looked curiously at the Saint. “You have given us more trouble than you know,” he said. “You have been extraordinarily lucky—but even the most astounding luck comes to an end.” “Just what they told me at Monte,” agreed the Saint, “They say the Bank always wins in the long run.” Watching closely, Simon could just note the least flicker of Bloem’s eyelids. “Fernando, of course,” said Bloem, half to himself.