The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

He rarely stirred out of doors except on business, preferring to sleep and drink and smoke at home, and amuse himself with his own inscrutable and animal meditations. He was at home when Jill Trelawney and Stephen Weald arrived, and went down to open the door to them himself when he recognized the signal on the bell which showed that the visitors were friendly.           

"Good-afternoon, Miss Trelawney," he said politely, for Harry Donnell prided himself on his accomplishments as a ladies' man. Her manner, however, cut short any courtesies.

"The Saint's after you," she said bluntly. "Where can we talk?"

He looked at her, and then led the way upstairs with­out a word.

They went up two flights of dingy, creaking stairs, for the first and ground floors were devoted to the sleeping accommodations of his gang. On the second floor he opened a door and showed them into a big, bare room, of which the principal articles of furniture appeared to consist of a rough deal table and a case of whisky. This room, like most of the others in the house, was lighted only by a small and dirty window which admitted hardly any light, and the gloom was made gloomier by the fog of stale tobacco smoke which hung in the air.

Donnell closed the door behind them.

"Did you say the Saint?"

"I did. Do you know him?"

Donnell drew back his lips from a row of black and broken teeth.

"I met him—once."

"You look like meeting him again," said the girl shortly.

Donnell was not immediately impressed. He took a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from a tin on the table.

"What do you mean?"

"He's after you for that show at Essenden's. He came and told me that he was going to take you himself. We shut him up in the cellar and came to warn you ourselves. But he got away somehow and caught the same train as we did. Weald saw him. We didn't see him again at the other end, but he can't be far behind. In fact, I know how far behind he is. He knows I'm coming here and he's hanging just far enough behind to get me into the trap as well. He's after me, too."

Donnell looked from her to Weald.

"Is this a joke?" he demanded.

And Weald's face told him it was not a joke. He turned to the girl again.

"Why didn't you get me on the telephone?" he asked harshly. "Isn't that what it's here for?"

"The exchange told me that the trunk line was out of order," said Jill quietly. "And don't talk to me like that. I don't like it."

Donnell faced her cold gaze three seconds and then dropped his eyes.

"No offense," he muttered.