Chapter VIII The Saint is Dense Bloem wheeled with a smothered exclamation, for the interruption came from behind him. Then the Boer slowly lowered his automatic—because Orace was carrying the enormous revolver which was his pride and joy, and that fearsome weapon was waving in a gentle semicircle so that it covered everyone in the room in turn. Orace leaned on the windowsill, well pleased with the timeliness of his entrance and the sensation it had caused. “Snoldup,” declared Orace brightly. “Ni jus’ come in the nicker time. Looks like a dangerous carrickter, too. Orfcer,” said Orace, with a lordly sweep of his free hand, “you ’ave the bracelets. Do yer dooty!” “My good fellow——” Orace waggled the blunderbuss threateningly in Bloem’s direction. “Lay orf ‘me good fellerin’’ me!” commanded Orace ferociously. “Caught in the yack, that’s wot you are, an’ jer carn’t wriggle out av it! Constible! Wot the thunderin’ ’ell are yer wytin’ for? Look slippy an’ clap the joolry on ’im! An’ jew jusurryup an’ leggo that popgun, or I’ll plugua!” Bloem let the automatic fall, and the Saint picked it up, in case of accidents. “I can explain,” persisted Bloem. “Corse yer can,” agreed Orace scornful. “Never knew a crook ’oo couldn’t.” “Oh, but he can,” said the Saint. “You can stop flourishing that cannon, Orace, and come right in. I was just wondering how to get hold of you.” Orace looked doubtful, but eventually he obeyed, clambering lamely over the sill and treating Bloem to a menacing glare as he did so. “Yessir?” “A simple case of mistaken identity,” remarked the Saint to the assembled company, in the manner of counsel opening the defence. “But Mr. Bloem was so very obstinate. . . . Well, this is Orace, late of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, and my servant for years. Orace will now testify that I reached home just after eleven, and didn’t leave again until about twenty to twelve.” The Saint did not even look at Orace as he spoke, for he knew his man. Carn, however, did, and saw Orace register surprise. “Tha’s so,” said Orace. “’Oo said yer didn’t?” “You see,” Simon explained, “Mr. Bloem there was held up by an armed man to-night, and he had the idea that it was me, so he’s been trying to arrest me.” Orace nodded, tilting his head away from Bloem as if the man offended his nostrils. “Ar,” said Orace derisively. “The idea!” The Saint turned to Bloem. “Perhaps you will now apologise?” he suggested. “Come, Mr. Bloem, admit that you didn’t get a good view of your assailant, and for reasons of your own you jumped to the conclusion that it was me. He might even have been masked. . . .”