The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

He picked up one of the newspapers that had come in with the tray, and read through the agony column care-fully, without finding what he sought. He had no more luck with any of the others.

"He hasn't had time," said Jill.

Simon nodded.

"To-morrow," he said, "for a fiver. Care to bet?"

They spent the day inside the Ritz, very lazily; but neither of them was inclined to take a risk at that moment. Meanwhile, Scotland Yard, lashed by the biting comments of Chief Inspector Teal, tore its hair and ran­sacked London, The Ritz, naturally, was never thought of; and Mr. and Mrs. Joseph M. Halliday never once set foot outside the hotel.

The advertisement appeared in The Times next morn­ing. During the previous day they had amused themselves with speculating about the form it would take; and, as it happened, neither of them had come very near the mark.

 

INJUSTICE.— A great wrong may be put right if the Lady of Paris will meet one who is anxious to make restitution in exchange for forgiveness—THE LORD OF PARIS.

 

"It brings tears to my eyes," said the Saint.

"Do you believe it?" asked Jill.

Simon shrugged.

"It isn't impossible," he said. "You say you're certain he had a hand in the framing of your father. Well, we now know a few things about him. He's got some reason to respect us. And, as a cautious man, he may think it a wise move to make a treaty."

Jill Trelawney nodded, buttering a slice of toast.

"And yet," she said, "it's a trap."

"Not for the police. Essenden wouldn't dare—not in the face of what we know. For trafficking in illicit drugs, five years' penal servitude."

"No, not the police. Just himself."

Simon lighted a cigarette.

"Do you want to buy?"

"We buy." She looked at him. "Or I buy. I shall see Essenden to-night."

"Where?"

"At his house. I've been there before. Shall I forget it?" She smiled at him, and he laughed. "That's where he'll be expecting me, from to-day onwards. He wouldn't expect me to write—he knows me too well."

"And if he knows you so well," said the Saint, "he'll be expecting trouble."

"Of course."

"And he's going to get it?"

With a cup of coffee in her hand, the girl answered, quite calmly: "A year ago I swore to kill every man who had a hand in ruining my father. Waldstein is dead. I suspect Essenden. If I find proof against him—"

"That was my way, once," said the Saint quietly. "But doesn't it ever occur to you that you might be doing much better work if you looked for the evidence to clear your father's name, instead of merely looking for revenge?"