“Bung-ho, troops,” he said. “Here’s to a good race, Carn.” The detective looked back. “_Reasonably_ good hunting, Saint,” he replied grimly, and Simon grinned and drank. “All things considered, worthy chirurgeon, I think——” The Saint broke off at the sound of a thunderous knocking on the front door. Then a bell pealed long and insistently at the back of the house, and the knocking was resumed. Simon set down his glass carefully. “You’re popular to-night, son,” he murmured. “Someone in a tearing hurry, too. Birth or death—what’s the betting?” “Hanged if I know,” said Carn, and went out. The Saint crossed the room swiftly and opened the casement windows wide, as an elementary precaution. Apparently the evening’s party was not yet over. He had not the vaguest idea what the next move was going to be, but the air tingled with an electric foreboding that something was about to happen. The girl looked at him inquiringly. He dared not speak, but he signed to her to keep her end up and go on trusting him. Outside, a voice which the Saint did not know was asking if Mr. Templar was there, and Carn answered. There was a tramp of heavy feet, and somebody arrived in the doorway. Simon was leaning on the mantelpiece, looking the other way, a study in disinterested innocence. “Ho,” said the voice. “There ’e is.” The Saint looked up. A man in uniform had entered, and the symptoms pointed to his being the village constable. Simon had not even realised that such an official existed in Baycombe, but that was undoubtedly what the gentleman with the pink face and the ill-fitting uniform was. The constable had clearly been dragged out of bed and rushed into his uniform—he was dishevelled, and his tunic was buttoned lopsidedly. All these details the Saint observed in a slow surprised once-over. Then the policeman advanced importantly and clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I am Constable George ’Opkins,” he said, “and if the Doctor will hixcuse me I shall arrest you on a charge of burglary annassault.” “Smoke!” said the Saint to himself. That was a move! Simon seemed astonished and rather annoyed, as if he were wondering how the mistake had been made and was quite satisfied that it would be cleared up in a moment, but beneath his outward poise his mind was working at breakneck speed. The counter-attack, and the rapidity with which it had been launched, were worthy of the Tiger, but it was fighting over very thin ice. “My good man, you’re dippy!” said the Saint languidly. “Who makes this charge, anyway?” “I do.” It was Bloem. Bloem with his leathery face perfectly composed, and just the ghost of a light of triumph in his slitted eyes betraying him. Bloem, walking past Carn into the room with just the right shade of deference and just the right suggestion of regret for having to make a scene—but quite firmly the law-abiding citizen determined to do his duty and bring the criminal to justice.