"How d'you feel, chum?" asked the Saint, dropping on one knee beside the man.
"I saw him do it," babbled a fat woman smugly. "With me own eyes I saw it. Jumped in front of the train as deliberate as you please. I saw him."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken, madam," said the Saint quietly. "This gentleman is a friend of mine. He's subject to rather bad fits, and one of them must have taken him just as the train was coming in. He was standing rather close to the edge of the platform, and he simply fell over."
"A very plucky effort of yours, sir, getting him out of the way," opined a white-whiskered military type. "Very plucky, by Gad!"
Simon Templar, however, was not looking for bouquets. The shabby man was sitting motionlessly with his head in his hands: the desperation that had driven him into that spasmodic leap had left him, and he was trembling silently in a helpless reaction. Simon slipped an arm around him and lifted him to his feet; and as he did so the guard broke through the crowd.
"I shall 'ave to make a report of this business, sir," he said.
"Lord — I'm not going to be anybody's hero!" said the Saint. "My name's Abraham Lincoln, and this is my uncle, Mr. Christopher Columbus. You can take it or leave it."
"But if the gentleman's going to make any claim against the company I shall 'ave to make a report, sir," pleaded the guard plaintively.
"There'll be no complaints except for wasting time, Ebenezer," said the Saint. "Let's go."
He helped his unresisting salvage into a compartment, and the crowd broke up. The District Railway resumed its day's work; and Simon Templar lighted a cigarette and glanced whimsically at Patricia.
"What d'you think we've picked up this time, old dear?" he murmured.
The girl's hand touched his arm, and she smiled.
"When you went after him I was wondering what I'd lost," she said.
The Saint's quick smile answered her; and he returned to a scrutiny of his acquisition. The shabby man was recovering himself slowly, and Simon thought it best to leave him to himself for a while. By the time they had reached Mark Lane Station he seemed to have become comparatively normal, and Simon stood up and jerked a thumb.
"C'mon, uncle. This is as far as I go."
The shabby man shook his head weakly.
"Really, I don't —"
"Step out," said the Saint.
The man obeyed listlessly; and Simon took his arm and piloted him towards the exit. They turned into a convenient cafe and found a deserted corner.
"I took a bit of trouble to pull you out of a mess, uncle, and the story of your life is the least you can give me in return."
"Are you a reporter?" asked the other wearily.
"I have a conscience," said the Saint. "What's your name, and what do you do?"
"Inwood. I'm a chemist and — a sort of inventor." The shabby man gazed apathetically at the cup of coffee which had been set before him. "I ought to thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but —"
"Take it as a gift," said the Saint breezily. "I was only thinking of our rails. I've got a few shares in the company, and your method of suicide makes such a mess. Now tell me why you did it."
Inwood looked up.
"Are you going to offer me charity?"
"I never do that. My charity begins at home, and stays on with Mother like a good girl."
"I suppose you've got some sort of right to an answer," said Inwood tiredly. "I'm a failure, that's all."
"And aren't we all?" said the Saint. "What did you fail at, uncle?"
"Inventing. I gave up a good job ten years ago to try and make a fortune on my own, and I've been living from hand to mouth ever since. My wife had a small income of her own, and I lived on that. I did one or two small things, but I didn't make much out of them. I suppose I'm not such a genius as I thought I was, but I believed in myself then. A month or so ago, when we were right at the end of our tether, I did make a little discovery."
The shabby man took from his pocket a small brass tube like a girl's lipstick case, and tossed it across the table. Simon removed the cap, and saw something like a crayon — it was white outside, with a pink core.
"Write something — with your pen, I mean," said Inwood.
Simon took out his fountain-pen and scribbled a couple of words on the back of the menu. Inwood blew on it till it dried, and handed it back.
"Now rub it over with that crayon."
Simon did so, and the writing disappeared. It vanished quite smoothly and easily, at a couple of touches, without any hard rubbing, and the paper was left without a trace of discoloration or roughness.
"Just a useful thing for banks and offices," said Inwood.
"There's nothing else like it. An ink eraser tears up the paper. You can buy a chemical bleacher, and several firms use it, but that's liquid — two re-agents in separate bottles, and you have to put on drops of first one and then the other. That thing of mine is twice as simple and three times quicker."
Simon nodded.
"You're not likely to make a million out of it, but it ought to have quite a reasonable sale."
"I know that," said Inwood bitterly. "I didn't want a million. I'd have been glad to get a thousand. I've told you — I'm not such a genius as I thought I was. But a thousand pounds would have put us on our feet again — given me a chance to open a little shop or find a steady job or something. But I'm not going to get a penny out of it. It isn't my property — and I invented it!.. We've been living on capital as well as income. This would have put us straight. It had to be protected."
The old man's faded eyes blinked at the Saint pitifully. "I don't know anything about things like that. I saw a patent agent's advertisement in a cheap paper, and I took it to him. I gave him all my formulae — everything. That was a fortnight ago. He told me he'd have to make a search of the records before my patent could be taken out. I had a letter from him this morning, and he said that a similar specification had been filed three days ago."
The Saint said nothing; but his blue eyes were suddenly very clear and hard.
"You see what it was?" In his weakness the shabby inventor was almost sobbing. "He swindled me. He gave my specifications to a friend of his and let him file them in his own name. I couldn't believe it. I went to the Patent Office myself this morning: a fellow I found there helped me to find what I wanted. Every figure in the specification was mine. It was my specification. The coincidence couldn't possibly have been so exact, even if somebody else had been working on that same idea at the same time as I was. But I can't prove anything. I haven't a shilling to fight him with. D'you hear? He's ruined me —"
"Steady on, uncle," said the Saint gently. "Have you seen this bird again?"
"I'd just left his office when — when you saw me at Charing Cross," said Inwood shakily. "He threw me out. When he found he couldn't bluff me he didn't bother to deny anything. Told me to go on and prove it, and be careful I didn't give him a chance to sue me for libel. There weren't any witnesses. He could say anything he liked —"
"Will you tell me his name?"
"Parnock."
"Thanks." Simon made a note on the back of an envelope. "Now will you do something else for me?"
"What is it?"
"Promise not to do anything drastic before Tuesday. I'm going away for the week-end, but Parnock won't be able to do anything very villainous either. I may be able to do something for you — I have quite a way with me," said the Saint bashfully.
This was on a Friday — a date that Simon Templar had never been superstitious about. He was on his way to Burnham for a week-end's bumping about in a ten-ton yawl, and the fact that Mr. Inwood's misadventure had made him miss his train was a small fee for the introduction to Mr. Parnock. He caught a later train with plenty of time to spare; but before he left the elderly chemist he obtained an address and telephone number.