The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

The mocking eyes glanced again from Budd to Weald, and back again to the girl. That maddening smile flick­ered again on the clean-cut lips with a glitter of perfect teeth.

"And are these two of the Lady's maids?"

"Suppose they are?" rapped the girl.

"What a dramatic ideal"

She discovered that the eyes could hold something even more infuriating than insolence, and that was a con­descending amusement. A little while before she had been treating Stephen Weald like a fractious child: now she was receiving the same treatment herself.

"I'm glad you like it," she said sweetly.

"You're not," said the Saint cheerfully. "But let that pass. I came to give you a word of advice."

"Thanks very much."

"Not at all."

He pointed with a long brown finger past the girl.

"There's a house up there," he said. "Don't pretend you don't know, because I should hate you to have to tell any unnecessary lies. It belongs to Lord Essenden. My advice to you is—don't go there."

"Really?"

"They're holding a very good dance up at that house," said the Saint sardonically. "I should hate you to spoil it. All the wealth of the county is congregated together. If you could only have seen the jewels——"

She had opened her bag, and there was a white slip of pasteboard in her hand. She held it up so that he could see.

"I think this will admit me."

"Let me see it."

He had taken it from her fingers before she realized what he was doing. And yet he did not appear to have snatched it.

"Quite a good forgery," he remarked—"if it is a forgery.

But I could believe you capable of engineering a real invitation, Jill."

"It's quite genuine. And I want it back—please!"

Simon Templar looked down the muzzle of the auto­matic and seemed to see something humorous there.

He looked perfectly steadily into her eyes, and with per­fect deliberation he tore the card into sixteen pieces and let them trickle through his fingers to the floor of the car.

"Your nerves are good, Templar!" she said through her teeth.

He appeared to consider the suggestion quite seriously.

"They've never troubled me. But that didn't require nerves. Another time I shall be more careful. This time, you hadn't had long enough to muster up the resolution to shoot. It wants a good bit of resolution to kill your first man in cold blood. But when you've thought it over . . . Yes, I think I shall be careful next time."

"You'd better!" snarled Weald shakily.

The Saint noticed his existence.

"You spoke?"

"I said you'd better be careful—next time!"

"Did you?" drawled the Saint.