13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"Not a bit of it,  Oscar,"  he murmured.  "You don't in­trude. In fact, you ought to be the guest of honour. Your class as an inventor really is A 1. When I showed the Cierva people what you'd done, they nearly collapsed."

Mr. Newdick blinked at him in a painful daze. "What do you mean?" he stammered.

"Why, the way you managed to build an autogiro that would go straight up and down. None of the ordinary ones will, of course—the torque of the vanes would make it spin round like a top if it didn't have a certain amount of forward movement to hold it straight. I can only think that when you got hold of some Cierva parts and drawings and built it up yourself, you found out that it didn't go straight up and down as you'd expected and thought you must have done something wrong. So you set about trying to put it right—and somehow or other you brought it off. It's a pity you were in such a hurry to tell Mr. Hayward that everything in your invention had been patented before, Oscar, because if you'd made a few more inquiries you'd have found that it hadn't." Simon Templar grinned, and patted the stunned man kindly on the shoulder. "But everything happens for the best, dear old bird; and when I tell you that the Cierva people have already made me an offer of a hundred thousand quid for the invention you've just sold me, I'm sure you'll stay and join us in a celebratory bottle of beer."

Mr. Oscar Newdick swayed slightly, and glugged a strangling obstruction out of his throat.

"I—I don't think I'll stay," he said. "I'm not feeling very well."

"A dose of salts in the morning will do you all the good in the world," said the Saint chattily, and ushered him sympa­thetically to the door.

IV

The Prince of Cherkessia

Of the grey hairs which bloomed in the thinning thatch of Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, there were at least a couple of score which he could attribute directly to an equal number of encounters with the Saint. Mr. Teal did not ac­tually go so far as to call them by name and celebrate their birthdays, for he was not by nature a whimsical man; but he had no doubts about their origin.

The affair of the Prince of Cherkessia gave him the forty-first—or it may have been the forty-second.

His Highness arrived in London without any preliminary publicity; but he permitted a number of reporters to inter­view him at his hotel after his arrival, and the copy which he provided had a sensation value which no self-respecting news editor could ignore.

It started before the assembled pressmen had drunk more than half the champagne which was provided for them in the Prince's suite, which still stands as a record for any re­ception of that type; and it was started by a cub reporter, no more ignorant than the rest, but more honest about it, who had not been out on that kind of assignment long enough to learn that the serious business of looking for a story is not supposed to mar the general conviviality while there is any­thing left to drink.

"Where," asked this revolutionary spirit brazenly, with his mouth full of foie gras, "is Cherkessia?"

The Prince raised his Mephistophelian eyebrows.

"You," he replied, with faint contempt, "would probably know it better as Circassia."

At the sound of his answer a silence spread over the room. The name rang bells, even in journalistic heads. The cub gulped down the rest of his sandwich without tasting it; and one reporter was so far moved as to put down a glass which was only half empty.

"It is a small country between the Caucasus Mountains and the Black Sea," said the Prince. "Once it was larger; but it has been eaten away by many invaders. The Turks and the Russians have robbed us piecemeal of most of our lands— although it was the Tatars themselves who gave my country its name, from their word Cherktkess, which means 'robbers.' That ancient insult was long since turned to glory by my ancestor Schamyl, whose name I bear; and in the paltry lands which are still left to me the proud traditions of our race are carried on to this day."

The head of the reporter who had put down his glass was buzzing with vague memories.

"Do you still have beautiful Circassians?" he asked hun­grily.

"Of course," said the Prince. "For a thousand years our women have been famed for their beauty. Even today, we export many hundreds annually to the most distinguished harems in Turkey—a royal tax on these transactions," added the Prince, with engaging simplicity, "has been of great as­sistance to our national budget."

The reporter swallowed, and retrieved his glass hurriedly; and the cub who had started it all asked, with bulging eyes: "What other traditions do you have, Your Highness?"

"Among other things," said the Prince, "we are probably the only people today among whom the droit de seigneur survives. That is to say that every woman in my country be­longs to me, if and when I choose to take her, for as long as I choose keep her in my palace."