It is always a question whether the man inspires the nickname or the nickname inspires the man. When a man is known to his familiars as “Beau” or “Rabbit” there is little difficulty in supplying the answer; but a man who is called “Saint” may be either a lion or a lamb. It is doubtful whether Simon Templar would have been as proud of his title as he was if he had not found that it provided him with a ready-made, effective, and useful pose; for the Saint was pleasantly egotistical. “There are the most weird and wonderful rumours,” said the girl, and the Saint looked milder than ever. “You must tell me,” he said. He had fallen into step beside her, and they were walking up the rough road that led to the houses on the West Tor. “I’m afraid we’ve been very inhospitable,” she said frankly. “You see, you set up house in the Pill Box, and that left everybody wondering whether you were possible or impossible. Baycombe society is awfully exclusive.” “I’m flattered,” said the Saint. “Accordingly, after seeing you home, I shall return to the Pill Box and sit down to consider whether Baycombe society is possible or impossible.” She laughed. “You’re a most refreshing relief,” she told him. “Baycombe is full of inferiority complexes.” “Fortunately,” remarked Simon gently, “I don’t wear hats.” Presently she said: “What brings you to this benighted spot?” “A craving for excitement and adventure,” answered the Saint promptly—“reinforced by an ambition to be horribly wealthy.” She looked at him with a quick frown, but his face confirmed the innocence of sarcasm which had given a surprising twist to his words. “I shouldn’t have thought anyone would have come here for that,” she said. “On the contrary,” said the Saint genially, “I should have no hesitation in recommending this particular spot to any qualified adventurer as one of the few places left in England where battle, murder, and sudden death may be quite commonplace events.” “I’ve lived here, on and off, since I was twelve, and the most exciting thing I can remember is a house on fire,” she argued, still possessed of an uneasy feeling that he was making fun of her. “Then you’ll really appreciate the rough stuff when it does begin,” murmured Simon cheerfully, and swung his stick, whistling. They reached the Manor (it was not an imposing building, but it had a homely air) and the girl held out her hand. “Won’t you come in?” The Saint was no laggard. “I’d love to.” She took him into a sombre but airy drawing-room, finely furnished; but the Saint was never self-conscious. The contrast of his rough, serviceable clothes with the delicate brocaded upholstery did not impress him, and he accepted a seat without any appearance of doubting its ability to support his weight. “May I fetch my aunt?” asked Miss Holm. “I know she’d like to meet you.”