He cocked an eye at the stolid country policeman who was holding his other arm.
"Do you have to be quite so professional, Reginald?" he murmured. "It makes me feel nervous."
The constable's hold relaxed reassuringly.
"I'd get along and see the doctor, sir, if I was you. He's in the lodge now with Lady Sangore."
"Is that the old trout's name? And I'll bet her husband is at least a general." The Saint was starting to get his bearings, and his legs began to feel as if they belonged to him again. He searched for a cigarette. "Thanks, but Lady Sangore can have him. I'd rather have a drink. I wonder if we could get any co-operation from the owner of this jolly little bonfire?"
"You mean Mr Fairweather, sir? That's him, coming along now."
While Simon had been inside the house, a number of other people had arrived on the scene, and another policeman and a sergeant were loudly ordering them to stand back. Paying no attention to this whatever, they swarmed excitedly round the Saint, all talking at once and completely frustrating the fat little Mr Fairweather, who seemed to be trying to make a speech. The voice of the general rose above the confused jabber like a foghorn.
"A fine effort, young man. A splendid effort, by Gad 1 But you shouldn't have tried it."
"Tell the band to strike up a tune," said the Saint shortly. "Did anybody find a ladder?"
With his strength rapidly coming back, he still fought against admitting defeat. His face was hard and set and the blue in his eyes was icy as he glanced over the group.
"A ladder wouldn't be much use now," said a quiet voice. "The flames are pouring out of his window. There isn't a hope."
It was the square-jawed man who spoke; and again it seemed to Simon that there was a faint sneer in his dark eyes.
The Saint's gaze turned back to the house; and as if to confirm what the other had said there came from the blaze a tremendous rumbling rending sound. Slowly, with massive deliberation, the roof began to bend inwards, sagging in the middle. Faster and faster it sagged; and then, with a shattering grinding roar like an avalanche, it crumpled up and vanished. A great shower of golden sparks shot upwards and fell in a brilliant rain over the lawns and garden.
"You see?" said the square man. "You did everything you could. But it's lucky you turned back when you did. If you had reached his room, the chances are that you'd never have got back."
Simon's eyes slanted slowly back to the heavy-set powerful face.
It was true that there was nothing more that he could do. But now, for the first time since the beginning of those last mad minutes, he could stop to think. And his mind went back to the chaotic questions that had swept through it for one vertiginous instant back there in the searing stench of the fire.
"But I did reach his room," he answered deliberately. "Only I couldn't get in. The door was locked. And the key wasn't in it."
"Really?"
The other's tone expressed perfunctory concern, but his eyes no longer held their glimmer of cold amusement. They stared hard at Simon with a cool, analytical steadiness, as if weighing him up, estimating his qualities and methodically tabulating the information for future reference.
And once more that queer tingle of suspicion groped its way through the Saint's brain. Only this time it was more than a vague, formless hunch. He knew now, beyond any shadow of doubt, with an uncanny certainty, that he was on the threshold of something which his inborn flair for the strange twists of adventure was physically incapable of leaving unexplored. And an electric ripple of sheer delight brought every fibre of his being to ecstatic life. His interlude of peace was over.
"Really," he affirmed flatly.
"Then perhaps you were even luckier than you realize," said the square man smoothly. If he meant to give the words any extra significance, he did it so subtly that there was no single syllable on which an accusation could have been pinned. In point of time it had only lasted for a moment, that silent and apparently unimportant exchange of glances; and after it there was nothing to show that a challenge had been thrown down and taken up. "If we can offer you what hospitality we have left — I'm sure Mr Fairweather—"
The Saint shook his head.
"Thanks," he said, "but I haven't got far to go, and I've got a suitcase in the car."
"Then I hope we shall be seeing more of you." The square man turned. "I suppose we should get along to the lodge, Sir Robert. We can't be any more use here."
"Harrumph," said the general. "Er — yes. A splendid effort, young man. Splendid. Ought to have a medal. Harrumph."
He allowed himself to be led away, rumbling.
Mr Fairweather grasped the Saint's hand and pumped it vigorously up and down. He had recovered what must have been his normal tremendous dignity, and now he was also able to make himself heard.
"I shall take personal steps," he announced majestically, "to see that your heroism is suitably recognized."
He stalked off after the others, without stopping to inquire the Saint's name and address.
Clanging importantly, the first fire engine swept up the gravel drive and came to a standstill in front of the terrace.
4
"I'm glad they got here in time to water the flowers," Simon observed rather bitterly.
He was wondering how much difference it might have made if they had arrived early enough to get a ladder to the window of that locked room. But the nearest town of any size was Anford, about seven miles away, and the possibility that they could have arrived much sooner was purely theoretical. From the moment a fire like that took hold the house was inevitably doomed.
The policeman who had been holding his arm had moved off during the conversation, and the other spectators were simply standing around and gaping in the dumb bovine way in which spectators of catastrophes usually stand and gape.
Simon touched Patricia's arm.
"We might as well be floating along," he said. "The excitement seems to be over, and it's past our bedtime."
They had got halfway to the car when the police sergeant overtook them.
"Excuse me, sir."
"You are forgiven," said the Saint liberally. "What have you done?"
"How did you happen to be here, sir?"
"Me? I just happened to see the fire from the main road, so I beetled over to have a look at it."
"I see." The sergeant wrote busily in his notebook. "Anything else, sir?"
The Saint's hesitation was imperceptible. Undoubtedly there had been various things else; but it would have been very complicated to go into them. And when Simon Templar had got the scent of mystery in his nostrils, the last thing he wanted was to have the police blundering along the same keen trail — at least not before he had given a good deal of thought to the pros and cons.
"No," he said innocently. "Except that this bloke Kennet seemed to be still in the house, so I just had a dart at fishing him out. He wouldn't be any relation of the M.P. by any chance, would he?"
"His son, I believe, sir, from what I've heard in the village. Staying with Mr Fairweather for the week end. He must have been suffocated in his sleep, pore devil — let's hope 'e was, anyway. It'll cause a bit of a stir, all right."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said the Saint thoughtfully.
The sergeant nodded sagely, no doubt squandering a moment on the satisfactory vision of his own name in the headlines. Then he returned to business.
"I'd better just have your name and address, sir, in case you're wanted for the inquest."
Simon felt in his pocket, produced a card, scribbled on it and handed it over.