“Rivals—more or less friendly—yes,” he said. “But I’m not a detective, and never was. I’m playing for my own hand, with an enormous quantity of ha’pence coming to me if I win, and everybody’s kicks if I lose. Profession, gentleman adventurer: _i.e._, available for any job involving plenty of money and plenty of trouble, suitable for a man who doesn’t bother much about the letter of the law and who’s prepared to take his licking without a yelp if he gets landed. That’s me. Like this. I happened to find Fernando, and as soon as I’d got the thing taped out I took a trip to Chicago and saw the boss of the Confederate. ‘Here’s nearly a year since your strong room was busted,’ I said, ‘and the dicks haven’t brought you back one cent of the almighties. Now suppose you let me have a shot. Terms, twenty per cent. commission if I bring it off. Not a bean if I don’t. Me to work on my lonesome, without reporting to anybody, and to take all the blame if I’m run over.’ Well, that put them on something to nothing, so they bit. And there you are.” He was looking steadily at her, but she did not change colour. But the Saint was never a faker, and this was his call to clean the whole sheet, so that she could take it or leave it as she chose and would never be able to say he hadn’t played square. He rubbed it in with brutal directness. “That’s the way I’ve lived for years. Pretty well, all things considered, so that if this gamble turns up I’ll be able to retire and settle down as soon as I like, and not have to stint myself anywhere. In those years I’ve committed about half the crimes in the Calendar, at the expense of crooks. It’s a sporting game—man to man, and devil take the mug: and the police, for obvious reasons, aren’t invited to interfere by either side. Bloem’s the first to break that rule; but the Tiger isn’t a sportsman—he’s just a pot-hunter. Still, I doubt if your friends would appreciate my success in that career. D’you still want to be a partner in the firm?” She sighed. “Saint, you’re an ass,” she said. “And if you exhibit any symptoms of virulent imbecility I shall fire you and become managing director myself.” “Hell’s bells,” ejaculated Simon, unwontedly moved, and swung away. Very carefully, so as not to disturb the board, he took another sight at the ship’s masts; and presently he straightened up with a light of triumph breaking on his face. “We’re in luck,” he said. “She hasn’t shifted a millimetre. Rotten bad navigation. I’d have known the height of my masts to an inch, and the height of the cliffs here ditto, and I’d have figured out my position to six places of decimals. . . . But the Tiger’s loss is our gain!” “They’ll start to come in at sunset,” she took him up excitedly. “And——”