“Still harping on my grey hairs!” he protested. “However, shall we stick to our former argument? You love him, and that’s all there is to be said. I’ve had a lot of experience of lawbreakers, and unofficially I’m broadminded about them. There are only three kinds of criminal. The first is the small sneak-thief who’s been brought up to it from childhood: he’s petty, whining or bullying according to size, and he spends most of his life in prison—but to him that’s part of the game. Obviously, Templar doesn’t fall into that category. The second type is the clever man with a kink: he does fairly well for himself, till one day he makes a slip and ends up in the dock. He may be bred to it like the first kind, or he may drift into crime because he thinks he sees bigger rewards for his cleverness there than in legitimate professions. But he’s a coward and a snake—and, obviously again, that lets Templar out. The distinction’s rather a fine one, but I think you can put it that the worst kink in type the second is that he can’t laugh like a completely sane man; and Templar’s got such a refreshingly boyish sense of humour. The third and last type is the Raffles. He’s common in fiction, but he only occurs once in a blue moon outside a novelist’s imagination; he does it more than anything for the thrill. Templar might be that, quite easily; but that kind is always clean, and if he loves you you’ve nothing to worry about. So suppose we agree that that’s the worst we can say about him—and we can even excuse some of that on the grounds of youthful high spirits and an impetuous desire for adventure. Are you satisfied?” Lapping had delivered this discourse in a kindly and charitable way, such as a man might use who had seen too much of the world to judge anyone hastily and who understood enough to be able to pardon much, and Patricia found it hard to doubt his sincerity. Still, she had a card or two yet to play, and she did not intend to let the Saint down by allowing herself to be too easily won. “You’re a wonderful help, Sir Michael,” she said. “You’ve more or less expressed what I feel myself. . . . It’s a comfort to know that I’m not alone in my lunacy.” “I think, though,” he warned her, “you ought to ask the young man to give his own explanation. If he trusts you, and if he’s the type I gather he is, he’ll make a clean breast of it all. Hasn’t he told you anything about himself?” She was instantly on her guard. “What sort of things?” she countered, and he showed surprise that she should ask such a question. “Well, things! He can’t have expected you not to be at all curious about the reason for these extraordinary goings-on.” “He just told me I must be patient and believe in him. He said it would be dangerous for me to know too much, but that once it was all cleared up and the enemy was out of the way he’d be able to explain it all.” “And who is this mysterious enemy?” “Mr. Templar calls him the Tiger—I don’t know why.”