06 Alias the Saint

With a shrug, the Saint turned back into the ' room. He sat on the edge of a table; but his poise was as restless as his perch. The last thing that anyone could have imagined was that he meant to stay sitting there.

"Listen, and I'll tell you a joke," he said. "I'm full of jokes these days. . . . Once upon a time there was a man who could not die. Joke."

"I wish to heaven you'd say what you meant"

"If I did, you wouldn't believe me."

"Not if it was about Miles."

"Quite! And it is about Miles. So we'd have a first-class row--and what good would that do? As it is, we're getting damn near it. So why not let it go?"

"You've made suggestions--"

"Of course I have," agreed the Saint wearily. "And now I'm going to make some more. Lose your temper if you must, Nigel, old dear; but promise me two things first: promise you'll hang on to those shares, and propose to Moyna to-night. She'll accept--I guarantee it. With lots of love and kisses, yours faithfully."

The youngster's jaw tightened.

"I think you're raving," he said, "But we're going to have this out. What have you got to say about Miles?"

The Saint's sigh was as full of patience and long-suffering as the Saint could make it. He really was trying to be patient; but he knew that he hadn't a hope of convincing Nigel Perry. And to the Saint it was all so plain. He wasn't a bit surprised at the sudden blossoming of the story: it had happened in the way these things always happen, in the way he subconsciously expected them to happen. He had taken the blossoming in his stride; it was all infinitely past and over to him--so infinitely past and over that he had ceased to think about coincidences. And he sighed.

"I've got nothing to say-about Miles." ^"You were saying--''

"Forget it, old dear. Now, will you do what I asked you to do about Moyna?"

"That's my business. Why should you want to dictate to me about it?"

"And as for those shares," continued the Saint calmly, "will you--"

"For the last time," said Perry grimly, "will youexplain yourself ?"

Simon looked at him over a cigarette and a lighted match, and then through a trailing streamer of smoke; and Simon shrugged.

"Right!" he said. "I will. But don't forget that we agreed it was a waste of time. You won't believe me. You're the sort that wouldn't. I respect you for it, but it makes you a damned fool all the same."

"Go ahead."

"Do you remember that fellow who was killed at Brooklands yesterday, driving with Miles Hallin?"

"I've read about,"

"He was a friend of mine. Over a year ago he told Miles Hallin about some dud shares. You bought them. Under a week ago he met Hallin again and told him the shares weren't so dud. Now Hallin's going to take the shares back off you. He killed poor old Teddy because Teddy knew the story--and Teddy was great on telling his stories. If Hallin had known that the man he saw with Teddy knew you, I should probably have had my funeral first. Miles is such a damned good chap. 'If it's a matter of Łs. d.,' he'd have said, 'I'd like you to start all square'''

"By God, Templar--"

"Hush! . . . Deducing back from that joke to the joke about another gold mine--"

Perry stepped forward, with a flaming face.

"It's a lie!"

"Sure it is. We agreed about that before I started, if you recall the dialogue. . . . Where was I? Oh, yes. Deducing back from that joke--"

"I'd like Miles to hear some of this," Perry said through his teeth.

"So would I," murmured the Saint. "I told you I wanted to find him. If you see him first, you may tell him all about it. Give him my address." The Saint yawned. "Now may I go, sweetheart?"

He stood up, his cigarette tilted up in the corner of his mouth and his hands in his pockets; and Perry stood aside.

"You're welcome to go," Perry said. "And if you ever try to come back I'll have you thrown out."

Simon nodded.

"I'll remember that when I feel in need of some exercise," he remarked. And then he smiled. For a moment he gripped the boy's arm.

"Don't forget about Moyna," he said.

Then he crossed the landing and went down the stairs; and Nigel Perry, silent in the doorway, watched him go.

The Saint went down slowly. He was really sorry about it all, though he had known it was inevitable. At least, he had made it inevitable. He was aware that he asked for most of the trouble that came to him--in many ways. But that couldn't be helped. In the end . . .

He was on the last flight when a man who was running up from the hall nearly cannoned into him.

"Sorry," said the man,

"Not at all," said the Saint politely.

And then he recognized the man, and stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.

"How's the trade in death?" murmured the Saint.,

Miles Hallin turned, staring; and then he suddenly knew where he had seen the Saint before. For an instant the recognition flared in his eyes; then his face became a mask of indignation.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded. Simon sighed. He always seemed to have something to sigh about in those days.