13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"How can you say that no other eventuality has been en­visaged?" asked Vould quietly. "You take a boy and teach him the rudiments of killing as if they were a desirable thing to know. You give him a uniform to wear and impress upon him the fact that he is a fighting man in the making. You make him shoot blank cartridges at other boys, and treat the whole pantomime as a good joke. You create a man who will instinctively answer a call to arms whenever the call is made; and how can you sit there tonight and say that you know exactly and only in what circumstances somebody will start to shout the call ?"

"I think we can depend on the temperament of the Eng­lish people to be sure of that," said Ormer indulgently.

"I think you can also depend on the hysteria of most mobs when their professional politicians wave a flag," answered Maurice Vould. "There probably was a time when people fought to defend their countries, but now they have to fight to save the faces of their politicians and the bank balances of their business men."

"Stuff and nonsense!" interjected Lord Yearleigh heartily. "Englishmen have got too much sense. A bit of military training is good for a boy. Teaches him discipline. Besides, you can't stop people fighting—healthy people—with that watery pacifist talk. It's human nature."

"Like killing your next-door neighbour because you want to steal his lawn mower," said Vould gently. "That's an­other primitive instinct which human nature hasn't been able to eradicate."

Yearleigh gave a snort of impatience; and Sir Bruno Walmar rubbed his smooth hands over each other and said in his rasping voice: "I suppose you were a conscientious objector during the last war, Mr. Vould?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," said Vould, with a pale smile, "but I was enjoying the experience of inhaling poison gas when I was sixteen years old. While you, Ormer, were making patriotic speeches, and you, Walmar, were making money. That's the difference between us. I've seen a war, and so I know what it's like; and I've also lived long enough after it to know how much good it does."

"What's your opinion, Mr. Templar?" asked Yearleigh. "Don't you think Maurice is talking like one of these damned street-corner Reds ?" The Saint nodded.

"Yes, I do," he said. There was a moment's silence; and then he added thoughtfully: "I rather like these street-corner Reds—one or two of them are really sincere."

Chief Inspector Teal nibbled a crust of bread secure in his voluntary self-effacement, while Mrs. Ormer made some twittering remark and the thread of conversation drifted off into a less dangerously controversial topic. He had, he admit­ted, failed dismally in his little solitaire game of spotting the prospective murderer. A Cabinet Minister, a multi-millionaire, and a poet did not seem to comprise a gathering amongst whom a practical detective could seek hopefully for felons. The only suspect left for him was still the Saint; and yet even when the meal was finished, after the ladies had retired and the port and cigars had been passed around, he had no reason, actual or intuitive, to believe that Simon Templar was meditating the murder of his host.

Yearleigh rose, and there was a general pushing back of chairs. The noble sportsman caught the detective's eye; and for the first time since Teal's arrival the object of his in­vitation was brought up again.

"I've had another of those damned letters," he said.

He produced it from his pocket, and held it out in a movement that was a general announcement that anyone who cared to might peruse it. Vould and the Saint, who were nearest, shared it with Mr. Teal.—

The message contained two lines in laboured script.

Since you have ignored my previous warnings, you will learn your lesson tonight.

There was no signature — not even the skeleton haloed figure which Teal had half expected to see.

The detective folded the letter and put it away in his wallet. His faded sleepy eyes turned back to his host.

"I'd like to have a talk with you later on, sir," he said. "I have some men in the village, and with your permission I'd like to post special guards."

"Certainly," agreed Yearleigh at once. "Have your talk now. I'm sure the others will excuse us. ... Wait a moment, though." He turned to Maurice Vould. "You wanted to have a talk with me as well, didn't you?"

Vould nodded.

"But it can wait a few minutes," he said; and both Teal and the Saint saw that his pale face was even paler, and the eyes behind his big glasses were bright with sudden strain.

"Why should it?" exclaimed Yearleigh good-humouredly. "You modern young intellectuals are always in a hurry, and I promised you this talk three or four days ago. You should have had it sooner if I hadn't had to go away. Inspector Teal won't mind waiting, and I don't expect to be murdered for another half-hour."