The Saint grasped the consummate efficiency of the Tiger’s tactics. Simon was to be shopped, and the shopping had been slickly done. He would be lucky to get away with six months hard—and taken in conjunction with the assault upon the police in the execution of its duty the whole charge-sheet might well put the Saint behind bars for upwards of a year. And in that time T. T. Deeps could be salted, and the Tiger Cubs could fade gracefully away. The Saint lounged even more languidly against the mantelpiece. This last deal had certainly given the Tiger one Hades of a hand. Yet indisputably the Saint dominated the situation. They were all waiting for him. Bloem, watching him through narrowed lids, and still training the automatic upon him, was utterly confident of the strength of his combination. He was just waiting for the Saint to confess defeat. The constable, more wary after his taste of the Saint’s anger, was hanging about in the background waiting for somebody else to start the next dance. Patricia was looking anxiously at the Saint, powerless to help him, and wondering if any daring sideslip was being planned behind that lazy exterior. The one certain thing was that she did not believe Bloem’s story for an instant. At any other time she might have credited it, but seen in the light of previous events that evening it savoured of nothing but the complicated web of mystery which had caught her up in its meshes and which threatened her Saint with the most sinister things. And Carn had nothing to say. As far as Bloem’s story was concerned, it might or might not be true—his knowledge of the Saint inclined him to believe it. But in any case the Saint was working against him, even if he was also working against the Tiger. And to have disclosed himself as Central Detective Inspector Carn of Scotland Yard would have written Finis to every chance he had of succeeding on his mission. “We’re waiting,” said Bloem at last. “So I see,” drawled Simon. “If you can wait a bit longer, there are just one or two more points to clear up. The first is that I’m sure you won’t mind the Doctor just examining the bump I must have raised on your cranium when I knocked you out.” He was watching Bloem closely as he spoke, and his heart sank when he saw that the man was not at all put out. Carn walked up to Bloem with a query, and Bloem nodded. “Just behind my left ear,” he said. “Sweetest lamb,” said the Saint through his teeth, “I’ll bet you just hated getting that bit of realism!” Carn looked at the Saint and shrugged. “Someone certainly hit him very hard,” he said. “Saint, you’ve put your foot in it this time.” “So I don’t think we’ll prolong this unpleasant duty,” said Bloem briskly. “Constable—you have the handcuffs? I’m covering him, and I shall shoot if he attacks you again.” And then the congregation was increased by one, for a man strutted out of the darkness and stood framed in the open window. “’Ere, wassal this?” demanded Orace truculently.