The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

A wave of spangled blackness swept over his vision, and all the remaining strength went out of him. He felt his fingers torn easily away from Essenden's throat, and heard Essenden draw breath in one long, quavering sob. The Saint was rolled away like a child.

As his sight cleared, he saw Essenden crawling away out of his reach.

He lay still, his chest heaving, utterly done in, and watched Essenden scramble to his feet at a safe distance.

"Beaten you—again. . . . And you won't—get—anoth­er chance!"

Essenden gasped out the words in a rasping clamour of triumph. He reeled towards Jill Trelawney, one hand caressing his larynx jerkily, and stood swaying before her with his face contorted.

"You too, my beauty! You don't know what a lot of trouble you've given me. You ought to pay for my trouble. I meant to leave you here and go back at once. But there's plenty of time before the tide comes up——"

"You fool! D'you think you can get away with this?"

Jill Trelawney stood with her head held high, the con­tempt undimmed in her imperious eyes, and her beauty made more vivid by its unwonted pallor. Her voice never faltered.

"Why not?" demanded Essenden hazily.

"Because the police are coming here. Because I told the police to come here in time to arrest you——"

"Arrest me?" Essenden chuckled. "There's nothing to arrest me for. There aren't any papers. You didn't believe that story, did you? The only evidence there is is here!" He tapped his forehead. "But I'll never give it. I could clear your father's name, but I never will. He was a meddler, and he had to go. Now you've started meddling as well, and you've got to go, too."

"The police will search the house," said Jill steadily. "They can't help finding this place. And then they will take you and hang you."

And even as she spoke, she knew that her bluff fell on deaf ears. Essenden paused to let her speak, but her words made no impression on his brain. Probably he never even heard them.

"Now you've got to go," he mouthed. "But not—before —I've made you—pay for my—trouble!"

He lurched forward, reaching out pawing hands.

And Simon Templar, lashing himself to the last bitter effort, tore futilely at the chain that held him.

In so doing, he rolled over on his face. And right under his nose was a little cluster of gleaming metal shapes.

A bunch of keys!   

 

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