The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

The cab in front stopped, and they were stuck behind it. Sitting well back to keep out of sight, the Saint saw Ted Orping pay off the driver and walk on. The cab in front moved on, and they followed slowly after it. Simon saw Nilder's back in the doorway of the house of service flats where he lived: Orping caught up with him in the entrance and gripped his arm. The Saint could only guess what was said, but the two men passed out of sight together.

Simon stopped the taxi, and they got out. He led Teal to the other side of the street.

"This is another wait," he said, "but it won't be a long one."

He lighted a cigarette, though he was not expecting to get more than a few puffs.

Presently he raised his head sharply.

"Did you hear that?"

It had been a sound like two very distant backfires in quick succession; but he knew they were not backfires.

Then he saw Ted Orping coming out, and crossed the road suddenly. Orping did not see him till they were face to face.

"A word with you, Ted," said the Saint affably. "Did you make quite sure Ronald wouldn't talk?"

The other gaped at him with a wild, almost super­stitious dread. And then, with a kind of slavering gulp, he turned and ran.

Simon ran faster. Looking back, Orping saw him only a yard behind, running easily, and groped for his gun. But he had thought of that too late. Simon clipped his heels together and dropped on him heavily. He twisted Orping's right wrist up between his shoulder blades and kept one bony knee in the small of the man's back.

"Lemme up," Orping whimpered. "You can't hold me for nothing."

"Only for wilful murder," said the Saint unctuously, and watched Chief Inspector Teal lumbering ponderously across the road towards them.

PART III THE DEATH PENALTY

CHAPTER I

THEY hanged Galbraith Stride at eight o'clock on the morning of the 22nd of November.

They came in and strapped his hands together, and led him out to the narrow whitewashed shed that was to be his last glimpse of the world-walking very fast, like a man who has made up his mind to see an un­pleasant appointment through as quickly as possible. They stood him on the chalked T in the centre of the trap, and drew the white cap down over his bald head and his pale frightened eyes, till the only feature of his face that could be seen was the thin twitching mouth under his little grey moustache. They settled the rope round his neck, with the knot just under his left ear; and the executioner stepped back to the lever that would send him into eternity.

They asked him if he had anything to say before he paid the extreme penalty of the law, and the tip of his tongue slipped once over those twitching lips.

"Get it over," he said; and with that they dropped him.

All this was after many other things had happened, and a lady had thanked the Saint for assistance.

CHAPTER II

LAURA BERWICK came into the Saint's life unasked, un­invited, and unintroduced; which was what one might have expected of her. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and a chin that was afraid of no dragons-not even of an outlaw so notorious and unpopular as Simon Temp­lar. And as far as the Saint was concerned, any girl with her face and figure could have come into his life unasked, uninvited, and unintroduced every day of the week, and he would have had nothing but praise for the beneficence of a Providence that provided surprises of such quality. He was able to frame that appraisement of her physical perfections within a bare few minutes of meeting her for the first time-which in this case hap­pens to be a far more respectable statement than it sounds.

Simon Templar had left London. The wanderlust that would never let him be still for long had filled him again with dreams of wild adventurous voyaging after an exceptionally short rest in the city that was as near home to him as anywhere else in the world. Partly be cause his rest had been so extraordinarily unrestful. In a very few months, London had loaded down his life with such a plentiful supply of excitement that he had made up his mind to take wing again promptly, before the standard of lawlessness and unrest depreciated. The house that he had chosen when he first returned was still in the hands of interior decorators who were struggling to repair the damage that can only be done by a powerful bomb exploded in a small room, and after viewing the progress of their efforts he had decided to terminate his lease and take up residence at the Dor­chester for the remainder of his stay. An expensive luxury, but one which he considered he had earned. Or, if he hadn't earned it, he would doubtless contrive to do so before he left. . . . And then-since this was in that memorable year when the sun shone upon England- the thermometer hopped back on top of the ninety mark, and after two days of it the Saint tore off his coat and tie and went forth into the West End swearing a quiet sirocco of wrath whose repercussions were recorded at Kew.