The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

"Because I happen to know him well," he said. "When he got his pardon, I coaxed him into the Secret Service to keep him from getting into more trouble. His methods have always been rather eccentric, but they're effective. Some time ago he got an idea that there was something more in the Trelawney business than ever came out, and I let him take up the case in his own way. He's been work­ing at it in his own way ever since: his police appoint­ment was only part of the job, and his very irregular resignation was only another part."

There was one person who was more surprised than Cullis, and that was Jill Trelawney.

"You, Saint?"

"When we first met," said the Saint sadly, "I told you I'd reformed, but you wouldn't believe me. And in the last few days I seem to have done nothing but talk to you about my respectable friend. Let me introduce you—Sir Hamilton Dorn, Chief Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis, commonly known as Auntie Ethel. Pleased to have you meet each other."

Sir Hamilton bowed slightly.         

"I never was the hell of a policeman," said the Saint apologetically. "Scotland Yard will probably survive without me—though I can't help thinking I might have pepped them up a heap if I'd stayed on."

For that one moment Simon Templar was the central figure, and there was not an eye on Cullis. And then the Saint, out of the tail of his eye, saw Cullis's right hand leap up, and shouted a warning even as he turned. But his voice was drowned by the roar of Cullis's automatic, and he saw the chief commissioner's gun drop to the floor, and saw a red stain suddenly splashed on the chief com­missioner's wrist.

He raised his own gun, but the hammer clicked on a dud cartridge, and he threw himself down on the floor as Cullis's automatic barked again.

He heard the bullet sing over his head and smack into the wall behind him with a tinkle of glass from a smashed picture, and spun his legs round in a flailing semicircle that aimed at Cullis's ankles. Even so, he did not see how Cullis could possibly miss with his next shot. . . .

He missed his kick ... but he had forgotten Jill Tre­lawney. As he scrambled up, he saw both her hands locked upon Cullis's wrist, and Cullis's third shot went up into the ceiling. Then he himself also had hold of the wrist, and he twisted at it savagely. The gun went to the floor, and the Saint kicked it away.