13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"Sh-shimple," said Mr. Penwick, emptying his glass and looking pathetically around for more. "I got Kinshallsh lasht willan teshtamen. Revoking all othersh. I wash going to Law Society to tellum, shoonsh I read the newsh, but I shtopped to have drink an' shellybrate. Now I shpose Lawsiety all gone home." He flung out his arms, to illustrate the theme of the Law Society scattering to the four corners of the globe. "Have to wait till tomorrer. Have 'nother drink inshtead. Thishish on me."

He fumbled in his pockets, and produced two halfpennies and a sixpence. He put them on the table and blinked at them hazily for a moment: and then, as if finally grasping the irrefutable total, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

"All gone," he sobbed. "All gone. Moneysh all gone. Len' me a pound, ole boy, an' I'll pay for drinksh."

"Mr. Penwick," said the Saint slowly, "have you got that will on you?"

" 'Coursh I got will on me. I tole you, ole boy—I wash goin' Lawshiety an' show 'em, so they could reinshtate me. Pleash pay for drinksh."

Simon lifted his own glass and drank unhurriedly.

"Mr. Penwick, will you sell me that will ?"

The solicitor raised shocked but twitching eyebrows.

"Shell it, ole boy? Thash imposhble. Profeshnal etiquette. Norrallowed to sell willsh. Len' me ten bob——"

"Mr. Penwick," said the Saint, "what would you do if you had five hundred a year for life?"

The solicitor swallowed noisily, and an ecstatic light gleamed through his tears like sunshine through an April shower.

"I'd buy gin," he said. "Bols an' bols an' bols of gin. Barrelsh of gin. I'd have a bath full of gin, an' shwim my-shelf to shleep every Sarrerdy night."

"I'll give you five hundred a year for life for that will," said the Saint. "Signed, settled, and sealed—in writing—this minute. You needn't worry too much about your professional etiquette. I'll give you my word not to destroy or conceal the will; but I would like to borrow it for a day or two."

Less than an hour later he was chivalrously ferrying the limp body of Mr. Penwick home to the ex-solicitor's lodg­ings, for it is a regrettable fact that Mr. Penwick collapsed rather rapidly under the zeal with which he insisted on cele­brating the sale of his potential reinstatement. Simon went on to his own apartment, and told Patricia of his purchase.

"But aren't you running a tremendous risk?" she said anx­iously. "Penwick won't be able to keep it secret—and what use is it to you, anyway?"

"I'm afraid nothing short of chloroform would stop Pen­wick talking," Simon admitted. "But it'll take a little time for his story to get dangerous, and I'll have had all I want out of the will before then. And the capital which is going to pay his five hundred a year will only be half of it."

Patricia lighted a cigarette.

"Do I help?"

"You are a discontented secretary with worldly ambitions and no moral sense," he said. "The part should be easy for you."

Mr. Willie Kinsall had never heard of Patricia Holm.

"What's she like?" he asked the typist who brought in her name.

"She's pretty," said the girl cynically.

Mr. Willie Kinsall appeared to deliberate for a while; and then he said: "I'll see her."

When he did see her, he admitted that the description was correct. At her best, Patricia was beautiful; but for the bene­fit of Mr. Willie she had adopted a vivid red lip-stick, an extra quantity of rouge, and a generous use of mascara, to reduce herself to something close to the Saint's estimate of Mr. Willie's taste.

"How do you do, my dear?" he said. "I don't think we've—er——"

"We haven't," said the girl coolly. "But we should have. I'm your brother Walter's secretary—or I was."

Mr. Willie frowned questioningly.

"Did he send you to see me?"

Patricia threw back her head and gave a hard laugh.

"Did he send me to see you! If he knew I was here he'd probably murder me."

"Why?" asked Willie Kinsall cautiously.

She sat on the corner of his desk, helped herself to a cigarette from his box, and swung a shapely leg.

"See here, beautiful," she said. "I'm here for all I can get. Your brother threw me out of a good job just because I made a little mistake, and I'd love to see somebody do him a bad turn. From what he's said about you sometimes, you two aren't exactly devoted to each other. Well, I think I can put you in the way of something that'll make Walter sick; and the news is yours if you pay for it."

Mr. Kinsall drummed his finger-tips on the desk and nar­rowed his eyes thoughtfully. By no stretch of imagination could he have been truthfully described as beautiful; but he had a natural sympathy for pretty girls of her type who called him by such endearing names. The rat-faced youth of sixteen had by no means mellowed in the Willie Kinsall of thirty-eight; he was just as scraggy and no less ratlike, and when he narrowed his beady eyes they almost disappeared into their deep-set sockets.

"I'm sorry to hear you've lost your job, my dear," he said insincerely. "What was this, mistake you made?"