The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

It could not have been more than six inches deep.

 

Chapter VIII

HOW JILL TRELAWNEY MADE A SLIP, AND

THERE WAS A LOT MORE PADDLING AND

GENERAL MERRIMENT

 

 

LORD ESSENDEN shifted his feet.

More than ten minutes had passed since the Saint had left the room. Essenden's arms, wearied almost to paraly­sis by the strain of the position of surrender which he had been compelled to adopt, had sagged lower and lower until now they hung straight down and aching at his sides.

Jill Trelawney had permitted the movement—it was the only thing to do. Sheer fatigue enforced it. But she never let her eyes stray an inch from their relentless con­centration, and the gun she held was as unwavering as if it had been gripped in the hand of an automaton. And Essenden was too wise to attempt to put into practice any of the bold bids for freedom that flashed in theory through his brain. He knew that, so far as Jill Trelawney was concerned, there could be little to choose between any of the possible excuses for rendering vacant the bar­ony of Essenden in the county of Oxford.

But the time passed; and Jill Trelawney, tirelessly watching her prisoner, was troubled by the first stirrings of anxiety.

She owed much to Simon Templar. Whatever ques­tions might be asked about her association with him, and the various conflicting debits and credits therein in­volved, there was one fact that stood away above all discussions or dispute. Forty-eight hours before, he had thrown up a new and promising career to rescue her from under the very nose of the law. That was an item on one side of the ledger which could hardly be cancelled by any number of contra accounts.

And still Simon Templar had not come back.

She had no idea what could have happened to him—if anything had happened. But it was not in her nature to dawdle along and hope for the best. He should have returned by then, and he had not returned. The reason for the delay might be made apparent in due course; but she was not inclined to leave it to chance.

"Essenden!"

Her voice crisped into the silence that had fallen upon the room with Simon Templar's exit; and Essenden started.

"The Saint has been gone a long time," said the girl —quietly and sufficiently.

"He may have met with some difficulty——"

"Or he may have met with some—accident."

The sentence was an accusation, and she was watching Essenden closely, but his face betrayed nothing.

"The slab in front of the safe may have stuck——"

"Then we'll go and help him to open it."