"I suppose you know more about it than I do, sir," he submitted humbly, "but I always feel the danger's exaggerated. There must be plenty of honest agents."
"There are, Old Man," rumbled Lemuel. "But we get saddled with the crimes of those who aren't."
Shortly afterwards, the conversation reverted to purely business topics; and the Saint, receiving a hint too broad to be ignored, excused himself.
Lemuel and the Saint left for England the next morning, and at the hour when he took off from Waalhaven Aërodrome on the last stage of the journey (they had descended upon Rotterdam for a meal) Simon was very little nearer to solving the problem of Francis Lemuel than he had been when he left England.
The inspiration came to him as they sighted the cliffs of Kent.
A few minutes later he literally ran into the means to his end.
It had been afternoon when they left the Tempelhof, for Mr. Lemuel was no early riser; and even then the weather had been breaking. As they travelled westwards it had grown steadily worse. More than once the Saint had had to take the machine very low to avoid clouds; and, although they had not actually encountered rain, the atmosphere had been anything but serene ever since they crossed the Dutch frontier. There had been one very bumpy half-hour during which Mr. Lemuel had been actively unhappy. . . .
Now, as they came over English ground, they met the first of the storm.
"I don't like the look of it, Templar," Mr. Lemuel opined huskily, through the telephones. "Isn't there an aërodrome near here that we could land at, Old Man?"
"I don't know of one," lied the Saint. "And it's getting dark quickly-I daren't risk losing my bearings. We'll have to push on to Croydon."
"Croydon!"
Simon heard the word repeated faintly, and grinned. For in a flash he had grasped a flimsy clue, and had seen his way clear; and the repetition had confirmed him in a fantastic hope.
"Why Croydon?"
"It's the nearest aërodrome that's fitted up for night landings. I don't suppose, we shall have much trouble with the customs," added the Saint thoughtfully.
There was a silence; and the Saint flew on, as low as he dared, searching the darkening country beneath him. And, within himself, he was blessing the peculiar advantages of his favourite hobby.
Times without number, when he had nothing else to do, the Saint had taken his car and set out to explore the unfrequented byways of England, seeking out forgotten villages and unspoiled country inns, which he collected as less robust and simple-minded men collect postage stamps. It was his boast that he knew every other inch of the British Isles blindfolded, and he may not have been very far wrong. There was one village, near the Kent-Surrey border, which had suggested itself to him immediately as the ideal place for his purpose.
"I say, Old Man," spoke Lemuel again, miserably.
"Hullo?"
"I'm feeling like death. I can't go on much longer. Can't you land in a field around here while there's still a bit of light?"
"I was wondering what excuse you'd make, dear heart," said the Saint; but he said it to himself. Aloud, he answered cheer fully: "It certainly is a bit bumpy, sir. I'll have a shot at it, if you like."
As a matter of fact, he had just sighted his objective, and he throttled off the engine with a gentle smile of satisfaction.
It wasn't the easiest landing in the world to make, especially in that weather; but the Saint put the machine on the deck without a mistake, turned, and taxied back to a sheltered corner of the field he had chosen. Then he climbed out of the cockpit and stretched himself.
"I can peg her out for the night," he remarked, as Lemuel joined him on the ground, "and there shouldn't be any harm done if it doesn't blow much harder than this."
"A little more of that flying would have killed me," said Lemuel; and he was really looking rather pale. "Where are we?"
Simon told him.
"It's right off the map, and I'm afraid you won't get a train back to town to-night; but I know a very decent little pub we can stay at," he said.
"I'll phone for my chauffeur to come down," said Lemuel. "I suppose there's a telephone in this place somewhere?"
"I doubt it," said Simon; but he knew that there was.
Again, however, luck was with him. It was quite dark by the time the aëroplane had been pegged out with ropes obtained from a neighbouring farm, and a steady rain was falling, so that no one was about to watch the Saint climbing nimbly up a telegraph pole just beyond the end of the village street. . . .
Lemuel, who had departed to look up the post office, re joined him later in the bar of the Blue Dragon with a tale of woe.
"A telegraph pole must have been blown down," he said. "Anyway, it was impossible to get through."
Simon, who had merely cut the wires without doing any damage to the pole, nevertheless saw no reason to correct the official theory.
Inquiries about possible conveyance to the nearest main line town proved equally fruitless, as the Saint had known they would be. He had selected his village with care. It possessed nothing suitable for Mr. Lemuel, and no traffic was likely to pass through that night, for it was right off the beaten track.
"Looks as if we'll have to make the best of it, Old Man," said Lemuel, and Simon concurred.
After supper Lemuel's spirits rose, and they spent a convivial evening in the bar.
It was a very convivial evening. Mr. Lemuel, under the soothing influence of many brandies, forgot his day's misadventures, and embarked enthusiastically upon the process of making a night of it. For, he explained, his conversation with Jacob Einsmann was going to lead to a lot of easy money. But he could not be persuaded to divulge anything of interest, though the Saint led the conversation cunningly. Simon smiled, and continued to drink him level-even taking it upon himself to force the pace towards closing time. Simon had had some opportunity to measure up Francis Lemuel's minor weaknesses, and an adroit employment of some of this knowledge was part of the Saint's plan. And the Saint was ordinarily a most temperate man.
"You're a goo' feller, Ole Man," Mr. Lemuel was proclaiming, towards eleven o'clock. "You stick to me, Ole Man, an' don' worrabout wha' people tell you. You stick to me. I gorra-lotta money. Show you trick one day. You stick to me. Give you a berra job soon, Ole Man. Pallomine . . ."
When at length Mr. Lemuel announced that he was going to bed, the Saint's affable "Sleep well, sir!" would have struck a captious critic as unnecessary; for nothing could have been more certain than that Mr. Lemuel would that night sleep the sleep of the only just.
The Saint himself stayed on in the bar for another hour; for the landlord was in talkative mood, and was not unique in finding Simon Templar very pleasant company. So it came to pass that, a few minutes after the Saint had said good-night, his sudden return with a face of dismay was easily accounted for.
"I've got the wrong bag," he explained. "The other two were put in Mr. Lemuel's room, weren't they?"
"Is one of them yours?" asked the publican sympathetically.
Simon nodded.
"I've been landed with the samples," he said. "And I'll bet Mr. Lemuel's locked his door. He never forgets to do that, however drunk he is. And we'd have to knock the place down to wake him up now-and I'd lose my job if we did."
"I've got a master key, sir," said the landlord helpfully. "You could slip in with that and change the bags, and he wouldn't know anything about it."
Simon stared.
"You're a blinkin' marvel, George," he murmured. "You are, really."
With the host's assistance he entered Mr. Lemuel's room, and emerged with the key of the door in his pocket and one of Lemuel's bags in his hand. Mr. Lemuel snored rhythmically through it all.
"Thanks, George," said the Saint, returning the master key. "Breakfast at ten, and in bed, I think. . . ."