Bittle looked hard at the Saint as he spoke, and the malevolence that glittered in his eyes belied the geniality of his speech. Bittle was clearly upset at having to carry out such a command. He barked an order, and the escort of roughnecks sidled out of the room, closing the door behind them. Bloem was fidgeting with his tie, and he kept one hand in a pocket that bulged heavily. “That’s nice of you,” drawled the Saint. “You won’t mind if I take Anna, will you?” He strolled coolly over to the secretaire, jerked open a drawer, and retrieved the knife that they had taken from him, slipping it back into the sheath under his sleeve. Then he faced the two men again. “Really,” he remarked in a tone of polite inquiry, “your kindness overwhelms me. And I never put you down for a brace of birds too gravely burdened with faith, hope and charity. Is Miss Holm such an insuperable obstacle—to Supermen like yourselves?” “I think,” said Bittle smoothly, “that you would be wise not to ask too many questions. It is quite enough for you to know, Mr. Templar, that your phenomenal luck has held—perhaps for the last time. You had better say good-night before we change our minds.” The Saint smiled. “You have no minds,” he said. “The Tiger says ‘Hop!’ and you blinkin’ well hop. . . . I wonder, now, is it because you’re scared of Orace? Orace is a devil when he’s roused, and if you’d bumped me off and he’d got to know about it there’d’ve been hell to pay. Possibly you’re wise.” “Possibly,” snarled Bloem, as though he did not believe it, and the Saint nodded. “There is always the chance that I might go and talk to the police, isn’t there?” Bittle was lighting a cigar, and he looked up with a twisted mouth. “You are not a man who loses his nerve and goes yelping to Scotland Yard, Mr. Templar,” he answered. “Also, there is quite a big prize at stake. I think we can rely on you.” The Saint stared back with a kind of reluctant admiration. “Almost I see in you the makings of sportsmen,” he said. “I can only hope,” returned Bittle impassively, “that you will find the sport to your liking.” Simon shook his head. “You won’t disappoint me, Beautiful One,” he murmured. “I feel it in my bones. . . . And so to bed. . . . Give the Tiger my love, and tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet him.” And the Saint paused, struck by a sudden thought. “By the way—about Fernando. You know somebody’s going to swing for him, don’t you? I mean, if things start to go badly, make sure the Tiger gets all the blame to himself, or else you might swing with him.” “We shall be careful,” Bittle assured him. “Splendid,” said the Saint. “Well, cheerio, souls. Sleep tight, and pleasant dreams.” He sauntered to the french windows and opened them. “If you don’t mind. . . . I have a rooted dislike for dark corridors. One never knows, does one?” “Mr. Templar.” The millionaire stopped him. “Before you go——”