The Saint could have given most shikars points when it came to moving across country without being noticed. Orace simply saw a tall shape melt soundlessly away into the gloom, and thereafter could trace nothing until the tall shape materialised again beside him. “All clear,” said Simon. “That means our Tiger’s burning the midnight oil thinking out something really slick and deadly.” The Saint was right. Although he and Orace never relaxed their vigilance, taking it in turns to sleep and keep watch, they were left in peace. The Tiger had taken one blind shot, and it had not come off. Moreover, if his organisation had been only a shade less thorough, it might have landed him in the tureen. As it was, he had come out of the encounter none too well. And for the future he intended to have his moves mapped out well in advance, with every possible set-back and development legislated for. None of these reflections disturbed the Saint’s sleep. He had taken the first watch, and so the sun was shining gaily through the embrasures when he awoke for the second time, to find Orace setting a cup of tea down by his bedside. “Nice morning,” remarked Orace, according to ritual, and vanished again. Since the episode of the bullet out of the blue, Simon had reluctantly decided to forgo his morning dip until the air had become clearer. However, he skipped and shadow-boxed in the sun with especial vigour, and finished up with Orace splashing a couple of buckets of water over him, what time the Saint lay on the grass drawing deep grateful breaths and blessing his perfect condition. For the Saint saw a fierce and wearing scrap ahead, and he reckoned that he would need all his strength and stamina if he was going to be on his feet when the gong clanged for the last round. “Brekfuss narf a minnit,” said Orace. The Saint was grinning as he dressed. Orace was nearly too good to be true. They were late that morning, and Orace left to fetch Patricia as soon as he had served “brekfuss.” The girl arrived in half an hour, to find the Saint spread-eagled in a deck chair outside the Pill Box. He had managed to unearth another pair of flannel bags and another shooting-jacket that were nearly as disreputable as the outfit which had been wrecked in Bittle’s garden the night before, and he looked very fresh and comfortable, for his shirt, as usual, would have put snow to shame. He jumped up and held out both his hands, and she gave him both of hers. “I haven’t seen you for ages,” he said. “How are we?” “Fine,” she told him. “And nothing happened.” She was cool and slim in white, and he thought he had never seen anyone half so lovely. “Something might have,” he said. “And when I was a Boy Scout they taught me to Be Prepared.” He rigged a chair for her and adjusted the cushions, and then he sat down again. “I know you’re bursting with curiosity,” he said, “so I’ll come straight to the ’osses.”