The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

The commissioner helped himself. He was a grizzled, hard-featured man who had worked his way up from the bottom of the ladder, and he had all the taciturn abrupt­ness common to men who have risen in the world by ' nothing but a relentless devotion to the ambition of rising in the world.

"How did she strike you?"

"She didn't," said the Saint perversely."I think she would have, though, but for the low cunning with which I made my escape. She's a sweet child."

"Charming," agreed the commissioner ironically. "So gentle! Such endearing ways!"

"Ever meet her?"

"No. I knew her father, of course."

Simon grinned.

"He never made any friendly advance towards me," he murmured. "But of course there was some prejudice against me at the time. Tell me that story again—from the inside."

Cullis settled himself.

"The inside is that Trelawney swore all along that he'd been framed," he said. "It's not such an inside, any­way, because he told exactly the same tale at the inquiry. After all, that was the only defense open to him: he was caught so red-handed that no one could have thought out any other explanation except that he was guilty."

"The story?"

"Police plans were leaking out; raids falling flat regu­larly. Something had to be done. The chief commissioner took a chance on myself and another superintendent— we had the longest service records—and arranged for us to lead a surprise raid on a Thursday night. On Thursday morning he let it get round the Yard that the raid was to take place on Saturday. We raided on Thursday with­out any fuss, roped in a gang that had slipped us twice before, and kept everyone on the premises—including the men who made the raid, and they were officially sup­posed to be on leave. Therefore there was nobody left at the Yard, except the chief, who knew that the raid was over. We had one man sitting over the telephone and another over the letter box. First post on Friday morning, a letter came in. Just one word, typewritten: Saturday. It was on official paper, with the heading cut off, and the experts put it under the microscope and traced it to the typewriter in Trelawney's office."

"Which anyone might have used."

"It was postmarked Windsor. Trelawney went down to Windsor for a consultation on Thursday afternoon—and he went alone."

"Flimsy," said the Saint. "An accomplice might have posted it."

Cullis nodded.