That knocked the bottom out of a neat little alibi that the Saint had thought of trying to put over, but he did not show his disappointment. “Two: didn’t anyone follow me here with you?” “I refuse to be cross-examined. I’ve told you I was alone——” “You’re talking,” said the Saint coldly. “Don’t. Be a good boy and just answer when you’re spoken to. And the point is, if you’ve been quite alone all this time, as you say you have, what’s your word against mine? Suppose I say I called in for a chat, and you stuck me up with that gun and tried to pinch my watch? Why shouldn’t you be run in yourself?” “Let ’im tell that to the judge,” growled the constable. “I think,” said Bloem acidly, “that my reputation will survive your wild accusations.” The Saint was not impressed. “We had a stand-up fight, did we?” he went on. “I grant you I look as if I’d been in some rough stuff. Now suppose you take off that mac and let’s see how you came out of it.” Bloem smiled, a little wearily, and unbuttoned his coat. The Saint’s lips tightened. Bloem certainly had a convincing air of having been violently handled, and that put the Tiger another point to the good. Simon saw the Tiger’s score soaring skywards at an alarming rate, but the only effect of that was to key up his own nerves, while his easy and confident manner never faltered. There were still a few more minutes to play. “It’s rather hopeless, isn’t it?” said Bloem. He was appealing to the audience, and the constable grunted his agreement. “What was this remark you didn’t understand?” asked Carn. “When he—as you say—threatened you with the revolver.” “It was most mysterious,” said Bloem. “He said: ‘I’m looking for the tiger’s den, and I think I’m getting warm.’ I still can’t make out what he meant.” Simon fished out his cigarette-case and began to tap a cigarette thoughtfully on his thumbnail. Apparently bored with the whole proceeding, he nevertheless saw Carn’s face become a mask. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Bloem, and the Boer’s bland demeanour almost took his breath away. The colossal audacity of that last statement was the crowning stroke to a truly masterly bluff. The Saint wondered if Carn himself was suspect, but Bloem’s gaze rested only on the Saint. No—the gang knew nothing about Carn’s real profession. Bloem was simply taking a vindictive pleasure in kicking the man whom he thought he had got where he wanted him. And it looked dangerously as if he had got the Saint tied hand and foot and gagged. Patricia could not help him, and Carn could not—even if he cared to. It was Bloem’s word against Simon’s, and there was no doubt which the Bench would prefer to accept. And Bloem knew that the Saint knew that any reference to the evening’s entertainment at Bittle’s would be futile. Bittle would lie like a Trojan, and the Tiger was sure to have provided him with a plausible explanation of the noise that had occurred earlier that night.