And the Tiger had the added advantage of being the attacker. Simon’s cigarette began to smoulder down in his fingers unnoticed. That was a point! The Tiger was sitting high and dry in his den, hatching plots and making raids and forays when the spirit moved him; while the Saint had to sit on the fence with his eyes skinned, just parrying the Tiger’s thrusts. And it became clear to the Saint that there was something unfair about that arrangement. True, the Saint had made one attack—but why let the offensive stop there? The enemy had an idea that he would come lunging in again that night: well, so he might, if it looked like a good tussle and he felt in the mood. But that didn’t imply an armistice until zero hour, by any manner of means. Quite a lot of skirmishing could take place before the big battle—and every blow of it would bother the Tiger and help harrass his organisation for the last rounds. There really was no earthly reason why the Tiger should have it all his own way. Where to launch the attack? The other Old House sprang to his mind at once. They might be expecting him to turn up there, but they would hardly anticipate his arrival in broad daylight. Which was just the way he might catch them on the hop. Or the dilapidated inn might be a false scent—in which case there was nothing but the state of his own nerves to stop him paying a call on Bloem. The prospects began to look brighter, and suddenly the Saint sat up with a broad grin illuminating his face. “I’ve very nearly got it,” he announced. “Do let’s hear!” She was flushed and eager, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted, like a splendid young Diana. She made a picture that in the abstract would have delighted the pagan Saint, but in the concrete it brought him up with a jerk. Next thing he knew, she’d be demanding to be allowed to accompany him on the whole tour. “Simply the germ of an idea to wallop the Tiger Cubs when they come in for the spondulicks,” he lied, thinking furiously. “You see, gold’s shocking weighty stuff, so they’ll have to ferry it to the ship in small doses. That’ll mean they’ll have about three of the ship’s boats running in relays—if they tried to take too big a load at once it’d simply drop through the bottom. And the crew’ll be pretty small. A motor ship doesn’t take much running, and they’d want to keep the numbers down in any case, because the seaman who can be relied on not to gossip in port is a rare bird. If we’re lucky, the skipper’ll be ashore getting his orders from the Tiger, and that’ll make one less to tackle. Otherwise, the Tiger’ll go aboard himself, and that’ll be one more to pip—though the fish’ll be worth the extra trouble of landing. In any event, the general idea is this: we’re going to have a stab at pinching that hooker!”