13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"I'll leave you the book," he said, "in case you want to entertain yourself some more. But I've got another copy; and if I don't receive your cheque by the first post on Friday morning it will go straight to my solicitors. And you can't^t kid yourself about what that will mean."

For a long time after he had gone Mr. Herbert Parstone sat quivering in his chair. And then he reached out for the book and began to skim through its pages. And with every page his livid face went greyer. There was no doubt about it. Simon Templar had spoken the truth. The book was the most monumental libel that could ever have found its way into print. Parstone's brain reeled before the accumulation of calumnies which it unfolded.

His furious ringing of the bell brought his secre­tary running.

"Fide me that proof-reader!" he howled. "Fide be the dab fool who passed this book!" He flung the volume on to the floor at her feet. "Sed hib to be at wuds! I'll show bib. I'll bake hib suffer. By God, I'll——"

The other things that Mr. Parstone said he would do can­not be recorded in such a respectable publication as this.

His secretary picked up the book and looked at the title.

"Mr. Timmins left yesterday—he was the man you fired four months ago," she said; but even then Mr. Parstone was no wiser.

VIII

The Noble Sportsman

It would be difficult to imagine two more ill-assorted guests at a country house party than Simon Templar and Chief In­spector Teal. The Saint, of course, was in his element. He roared up the drive in his big cream and red sports car and a huge camel-hair coat as if he had been doing that sort of thing for half his life, which he had. But Mr. Teal, driving up in the ancient and rickety station taxi, and alighting cum­brously in his neat serge suit and bowler hat, fitted less successfully into the picture. He looked more like a builder's foreman who had called to take measurements for a new bathroom, which he was not.

But that they should have been members of the same house party at all was the most outstanding freak of cir­cumstance; and it was only natural that one of them should take the first possible opportunity to inquire into the motives of the other.

Mr. Teal came into the Saint's room while Simon was dressing for dinner, and the Saint looked him over with some awe.

"I see you've got a new tie," he murmured. "Did your old one come undone?"

The detective ran a finger round the inside of his collar, which fitted as if he had bought it when he was several years younger and measured less than eighteen inches around the neck.

"How long have you known Lord Yearleigh?" he asked bluntly.

"I've met him a few times," said the Saint casually.

He appeared to be speaking the truth; and Mr. Teal was not greatly surprised—the Saint had a habit of being acquaint­ed with the most unlikely people. But Teal's curiosity was not fully satisfied.

"I suppose you're here for the same reason as I am," he said.

"More or less, I take it," answered Simon. "Do you think Yearleigh will be murdered?"

"You've seen the anonymous letters he's been receiving?"

"Some of 'em. But lots of people get anonymous threatening letters without getting a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard sent down as a private pet."

"They aren't all M.P.'s, younger sons of dukes, and well-known influential men," said the detective rather cynically. "What do you think about it?"

"If he is murdered, I hope it's exciting," said the Saint callously. "Poison is so dull. A hail of machine-gun bullets through the library window would be rather diverting, though. . . . What are you getting at, Claud—are you trying to steal my act or are you looking for an alliance?"

Mr. Teal unwrapped a wafer of chewing gum and stuck it in his mouth, and watched the Saint fixing buttons in a white waistcoat with a stolid air of detachment that he was far from feeling. It was sometimes hard for him to re­member that that debonair young brigand with the dangerous mouth and humorous blue eyes had personally murdered many men, beyond all practical doubt but equally beyond all pos­sibility of legal proof; and he found it hard to remember then. But nevertheless he remembered it. And the fact that those men had never died without sound reason did not ease his mind—the Saint had a disconcerting habit of assassinating men whose pollution of the universe was invisible to any­one else until he unmasked it.

"I'd like to know why you were invited," said Mr. Teal.

Simon Templar put on his waistcoat, brushed his tuxedo, and put that on also. He stood in front of the dressing-table, lighting a cigarette.

"If I suggested that Yearleigh may have thought that I'd be more use than a policeman, you wouldn't be flattered," he remarked. "So why worry about suspecting me until he really is dead? I suppose you've already locked up the silver and had the jewels removed to the bank, so I don't see how I can bother you any other way."