“And there you have it,” he concluded. “Heard in cold blood, with the sun shining and all that, it sounds preposterous enough to make dear old Munchausen look like gospel. But you’ve seen a bit of it yourself, and perhaps that’ll make it easier for you to believe the rest. And what it boils down to is that the Tiger is in Baycombe, and so am I, and so are the pieces of eight; and the Tiger wants my head on a tin tray, and I want his ill-gotten gains, and we’re both pretty keen to hang on to our respective possessions. So, taken by and large, it looks like we shall come to blows and other Wild and Woolly Western expressions of mutual ill-feeling. And the point is, Pat, and the reason why I felt you had a right to know all the odds—is that you’ve gone and cut in on the game. By last night, the Tiger had to face the risk that I might have talked to you, and the way you behaved generally won’t have eased his mind any. You might be a danger or you might not, but he can’t afford to take chances. To be on the safe side, he’s got to assume that you and I are as thick as thieves. So you see, old soul, you’re slap in the middle of this here jamboree, whether you like it or not. You’re cast for second juvenile lead in the bloodcurdling melodrama now playing, and your name’s up in red lights all round the Tiger’s den—and the question before the house is, What Do We Do About It?” He was leaning forward so that he could see her face, and she knew that he was desperately serious. She knew, also, instinctively, that he was not a man to exaggerate the situation, however much he might play the buffoon in other directions. “Now, here’s my suggestion,” said the Saint. “I know a bloke called Terry Mannering, who lives on the other side of Devonshire, and he can deal with fun and games as well as I can. He has a wife, whom you’ll love, and a very good line in yachts, being nearly as rich as I should like to be since his Old Man kicked the bucket. If I took you over and told Terry that it’d be good for all your healths if you went cruising off to the West Indies or somewhere else a long way off for a few months, till the tumult and the shouting dies, so to speak, and the Tigers and their Cubs depart—well, I know the three of you’d be on the high seas in no time. And the Tiger and I would be rude to each other for a bit, and when it was all over and he was decently buried I’d let you know and you could come back. What about it?” Patricia studied her shoe; and she said, in a very Saintly way: “What, indeed?” “You said?” rapped Simon. “What about it?” queried Patricia. “It might be rather a good idea some time, but you can’t rush it like that. Besides, I’m rather enjoying myself in Baycombe.” Simon got up.