“Why, whatever makes you ask that?” he inquired in frank bewilderment. “Simon—Mr. Templar mentioned that you’d once sentenced a dangerous criminal of that name, and he said he thought the man might make an attempt on your life.” He nodded. “Yes, I remember—Templar said as much to me the first time we met. Harry the Duke swore from the dock that he’d get even with me. But I’ve heard the same threat several times, and I’m still alive, and it hasn’t spoilt my sleep.” Patricia made her escape as soon after that as she could. She had to confess herself utterly baffled. However Lapping had behaved earlier in the afternoon, his response to that startling question of hers could not have been more open or more genuine. The name of Harry the Duke conveyed nothing more to Lapping than a crook he had sent to prison in the course of his duty—she would have given her oath for it. He had been unaffectedly taken off his guard, and yet there had been no vestige of fear or suspicion in his puzzlement. Could a guilty man have accomplished such a feat—even if he were the most consummate actor that was ever born? The girl felt a crying need for Simon Templar’s superior knowledge and acuter judgment. She was helpless—beaten. But for the amusement she had detected in Lapping’s eyes, she would not have hesitated to acquit him. Even now she was strongly impelled to do so, in the light of developments subsequent to that, and she was casting around for some theory that would eliminate any malevolent motive and still account satisfactorily for the indisputable fact that he had seen at once what she had been driving at and had calmly and effectively refused to allow himself to be inveigled into saying any more than he chose to say. But then—the realisation only came to her with stunning conviction when she was walking up the drive to the Manor—if Lapping were blameless, then the only person who could be the Tiger was Agatha Girton! Chapter XIII The Brand She was aghast at the thought. Could she have been living for months and years in the home of the Tiger? It seemed impossible, and yet the theory seemed to get more watertight with every second. It would account for Agatha Girton’s continual absences abroad, and the letters which came from the Riviera could easily have been fake alibis. But in that case the trip to South Africa would have been real enough—the Tiger would naturally have gone there to look for a derelict gold mine to salt with his plunder, as the Saint had explained. And she remembered that Agatha Girton had been away just about the time when the Tiger had broken the Confederate Bank. So the Tiger was a woman! That was not outside the bounds of credibility, for Miss Girton would have had no trouble in impersonating a man.