And since he saw that neither cajoling nor cursing would budge her, he accepted the situation like a wise man. And even then (with such an inferiority complex is Love afflicted) the sublime egotist did not spot the foundation of her determination, though it stuck out a mile. Nevertheless, in his blindness he was very near to blundering straight into the heart of the affair. His scowl relaxed, and he took her hand from his shoulder and held it. “I’ve known some fool women,” said the Saint, “but I never met one whose foolishness appealed to me more than yours.” “Then—it’s a bet?” she asked. He nodded. “You said it, partner. And the Lord grant we win. It’s not my fault if you insist on jazzing into the Tiger’s den, but it’ll be my unforgivable fault if I don’t yank you out again safely. Shake!” “Bless you,” said Patricia softly. Chapter IX Patricia Perseveres “Well,” remarked Simon Templar, breaking a long silence as lightly as he could, “where do we go from here, old Pat?” She disengaged her hand and sat down again; and he shifted his own chair round so that they were knee to knee. She was chilled by the definiteness with which he reverted to pure business, though later she realised that he did so only because he was afraid of letting himself go, and possibly incurring her displeasure by forcing the pace. “I’ve also a story to tell,” she said, “and it came out only last night.” And she gave him a full account of Agatha Girton’s confession. For such a loquacious man, he was an astonishingly attentive listener. It was a side of his character which she had not seen before—the Saint concentrating. He did not interrupt her once, sitting back with his eyes shut and his face so composed that he might well have been asleep. But when she had finished he was frowning thoughtfully. “Curiouser and curiouser,” said the Saint. “So Aunt Aggie is one of the bhoys? But what in the sacred name of haggis could anyone blackmail Aunt Aggie with? Speaking quite reverently, I can’t imagine she was ever ravishing enough, even in her prime, to acquire anything like a Past.” “It does seem absurd, but——” The Saint scratched his head. “What do you know about her?” “Very little, really,” Patricia replied. “I’ve sort of always taken her for granted. My mother died when I was twelve—my father was killed hunting three years before that—and she became my guardian. I never saw much of her until quite recently. She spent most of her time abroad, on the Riviera. She had a villa at Hyères. I stayed on at school very late, and I was generally alone here during the holidays—I mean, she was away, though I usually had school friends staying with me, or I stayed with them. She didn’t do much for me, but my bills were paid regularly, and she wrote once a fortnight.” “When did she settle down in Baycombe, then?”