06 Alias the Saint

"Don't you know this is most irregular?" he demanded reprovingly.

"I haven't come here to be funny," she flashed back, in a low voice. "Listen to me---were you talking nothing but nonsense this morning?"

"Not altogether," replied Simon cautiously. "Although I don't mind admitting--"

"You're a detective?"

"Er--occasionally," said Simon modestly.

The girl bit her lip.

"Whom are you after?" she asked.

Simon's eyebrows went up.

"I'm after one or two people," he said. "Marring and Crantor, for instance, I hope to include in the bag. But the man I'm really sniping for is Bunnywugs.''

"You mean Professor Raxel?"

"That's what he's calling himself now, is it? I've heard him spoken of by a dozen different names, but he's best known as the Professor. He has a certain reputation."

The girl nodded.

"Well," she said, "you gave the gang some pretty straight warnings at breakfast. Now I'm warning you. If the Professor's got a reputation, you can take it from me he's earned it. You've bitten off a lot more than you can chew, Smith, and if you go on playing the fool like this it'll choke you!"

"Rameses is rather a mouthful, I grant you, so my friends usually call me Simon," said the Saint wistfully.

The girl stamped her foot.

"You can be funny at breakfast to-morrow, if you live to eat it," she shot back. "For God's sake-- can't you see what danger you're in?"

"Now I come to think of it," murmured the Saint, "you must have a name, too."

"Tregarth's my name," she told him impatiently.

"It must have been your father's," said the Saint, with conviction. "Tell me--what else do the family call you to distinguish you from him?"

"Betty Tregarth.

Simon held out his hand.

"Thanks, Betty," he said seriously. "You're rather a decent kid. I'm sorry you're mixed up in this bunch of bums.''

"I'm not!" she began hotly, and then suddenly fell silent, her face going white, for she realized how impossible it would be to tell him the true circumstances.

And the realization cut her like a knife, for Simon Templar was smiling at her in a particularly nice way; and she knew at once that if there was one man in the whole world whom she might have trusted with such a story as hers, it was the smiling young man with the hell-for-leather blue eyes who stood before her arrayed in green pajamas and a staggering silk dressing gown that would have made Joseph's coat look like a suit of deep mourning. And by the cussedness of Fate it had had to so happen that he was also one of the few men in the world in whom she could not possibly confide. She felt hot tears stinging her eyelids--tears that she longed to shed, and could not.

"Shake, Betty," said the Saint gently, and she took his hand.

He looked down at her, still smiling in that particularly nice way.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "But it's ho use, though--I'm staying here as long as the job takes. If you'll adopt me as a sort of honorary uncle and take my advice, you'll get out of this as quick as you can. Pack your bag to-night, and hike for the station first thing to-morrow morning. That's a straight tip. And if you do decide to get out, and the other tumours cut up queer, just blow me the wink and I'll see you through. That's a promise."

He opened the door for her, and he had to let go her hand to do it.

"Good-night," said the Saint.

"Good-night," she said, with quivering lips and an ache in her throat.

He closed the door on her, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

5

He rolled back into bed again, blew out the lamp, snuggled down, and was asleep in a few minutes, The prospect of being the object of the attentions of other nocturnal visitors not so kindly disposed towards him failed to disturb his slumbers for he knew exactly how far he could trust his powers of sleeping as lightly as he wished to.

His confidence was justified; for when, three hours later, the door began to swing open under the impulse of a stealthy hand, the almost inaudible ting! of the little bell he had attached to it was sufficient to rouse him, and in an instant he was wide awake

He pushed back the blankets and slid soundlessly out of bed, taking with him the electric torch and automatic pistol which were under his pillow.

The room was in pitchy darkness. The Saint waited a moment until he judged that the intruder was right inside the room, and then switched on his torch. It picked up the figure of Basher Tope, advancing cat-footed towards the bed, and in Basher Tope's right hand was the instrument which had won him his nickname--a wicked-looking black-jack.

"Hullo, Basher!" said the Saint brightly. "Come to hear a bedtime story from Uncle Rameses?"

For answer Tope leaped, swinging his bludgeon, but the blinding beam of light that concentrated in his eyes was extinguished suddenly, and he struck empty air. He felt his way round cautiously, and found the bed empty. Then he heard a mocking laugh behind him, and spun round. The torch was switched on again, and focused him from the other side of the room.