"No, boss," said Mr. Uniatz, shaking his head vigorously. "I don't know nut'n about nut'n."
"But what about Jarving?" put in the girl.
"Jarving is safe in clink," said the Saint with conviction. "If the first person who found him wasn't a policeman, which it probably was at that hour of the morning, I don't think anyone who found him could get those handcuffs off without a policeman happening along. So the coast seems to be as clear as we're ever likely to have it."
She finished her breakfast and drank the coffee which he poured out for her; and then he gave her a cigarette.
"Get hold of yourself, kid," he said. "I want you to be starting soon."
For an instant her stomach felt empty as she realized that, once outside the shelter of that house, she was a fugitive again, even if the very idea of policemen seemed absurd in that peaceful place. And then she felt his blue eyes resting on her appraisingly and managed a smile.
"All right, Don Q," she said. "What is it?"
"Your share is easy. You've only got to walk up to Hawk Lodge and introduce Hoppy as your brother. I don't expect you'll be asked to stay, and I'll be waiting right round the corner to drive you back. The rest is Hoppy's funeral — or it may be if he doesn't get the lead out of his sleeve on the draw."
Looking towards Mr. Uniatz, she saw his hand move with the speed of a bullet, and stared into the muzzle of an automatic which had somehow appeared in his grasp.
"Was dat fast," he asked indignantly, "or was dat fast?"
"I think it was fast," said the girl gravely.
"Say, an' can I shoot wit' it?" proclaimed Mr. Uniatz, rewarding her with a beam that displayed all his gold fillings. "Say, I betcha never see a guy t'row two cups in de air an' bean 'em wit' one shot."
"Yes, she has," said the Saint, moving Hoppy's cup rapidly away from under his eager fingers. "And she doesn't like it. Now for heaven's sake put that Betsy away and listen. Your name's Tim Vickery — have you got that?"
"Sure. Tim Vickery — dat's my name."
"You're an artist."
"What, me?" protested Mr. Uniatz plaintively. "Say, boss, you know I can't do dat pansy stuff."
"You don't have to," said the Saint patiently. "That's just your profession. You were brought up in America — that'll account for your accent — but you're really English. About fifteen months ago you were—"
"Say, boss," suggested Mr. Uniatz pleadingly, "why can't I be a bootlegger? You know, one of de big shots. Wit' dat emerald ya gimme last night, I could do it poifect."
Simon breathed deeply.
"I tell you, you're an artist," he said relentlessly. "There aren't any bootleggers in this story. About fifteen months ago you were arrested for forgery—"
"Say, boss," said Mr. Uniatz, with his homely brow deeply wrinkled in the effort of following a train of thought that was incapable of being hurried, "what was dat crack about de pansy stuff bein' my perfession?"
The Saint sighed and got up. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, smoking his cigarette and staring at the carpet; and then he turned abruptly.
"The hell with it," he said. "I'm going to be Tim Vickery."
"But dat's my name," complained Hoppy.
"I'll borrow it," Simon said bluntly. "I don't think it suits you." He looked at the girl. "I was going to put Hoppy in because I thought the most important part of the job would be outside, but now I'm not so sure. I don't think there's much difference — and I'm afraid the inside stand is a bit out of Hoppy's distance. Are you all set to go? I want to show you something, and I've got to make a phone call."
He led her across the hall to the study which adjoined the living room, and picked up the telephone on the desk. In a few moments he was through to London.
"Hullo, Pat," he said. "I thought you'd be back. Did you have a swell time?… Grand. I'm down at Weybridge. Now listen, keed — can you catch the next train down?… Well, we've had a certain amount of song and skylarking while you've been away, and I've got a damsel in distress down here, and now I've got to push off again. That only leaves Hoppy and Orace, so you'll have to do your celebrated chaperoning act… No, nothing desperate; but Claud Eustace may be puffing and blowing a bit in the near future… Good girl. Then the damsel in distress will tell you all about it when you arrive. So long, darling. Be seein' ya."
He hung up the instrument and turned back with a smile.
"You're going to meet Patricia Holm," he said.
"Which is rather a privilege. When she gets here, tell her everything — from the beginning right down to where I take up your brother's name. Do you understand? If there's any trouble — whether it's from Act of God or Chief Inspector Teal — Pat will be able to handle it better than anyone else I know."
She nodded.
"I'll be all right."
"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be leaving you," he said and went to a bookcase beside the desk. "Now here's the next thing: If there's any trouble — and if Pat isn't here, Grace will know — this is your way out."
The entire bookcase opened like a door on well-oiled hinges, giving her a glimpse of what appeared to be a passage.
"It isn't a passage," he explained, closing the bookcase again. "It's just a space between two walls. I built it myself. But they're both solid, so it can't be found by tapping around to see if anything sounds hollow. There's an armchair and some magazines, and it's ventilated; but you'd better not smoke. This is how it works: If the door's closed, and you open this drawer of the desk till it clicks, and then pull out the second shelf…"
He showed her how to manipulate the series of locks which he had devised.
"There's just one other thing," he said. "I want you to ring me up tonight — or get Pat to do it and say she's you. Just talk as if you were talking to Tim, because somebody may listen on the line. But listen very carefully to what I say at the other end. If there's anything I want, I'll be able to let you know."
Mr. Uniatz, who had been nibbling the end of a black cigar and watching all these proceedings with a vacant expression, cleared his throat and gave utterance to a problem which had been puzzling him ever since he left the breakfast table. "Boss," he interrupted diffidently, "what's wrong wit' my accent?"
"Nothing at all," said the Saint. "It reminds me of a nightjar calling to its mate." He put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "If you're ready now, we'll go."
They walked down a leafy avenue over the hill. There were starlings cheeping in the undergrowth, and the air was hazy with the promise of a fine day. The world was so still, without even a whisper of distant traffic, that her adventure seemed yet more unbelievable.
"Why are you taking so much trouble?" she had to ask; and he laughed.
"You've heard that I'm an outlaw, haven't you? And an outlaw lives by the supply of boodle. I know we still haven't very much to go on; but when a bird like Ivar Nordsten is falling over himself to get in touch with a convicted forger, I kind of get inquisitive. Besides, there's another thing. If I could dump the evidence of some really full-grown ungodliness into Teal's lap, he mightn't feel quite so upset about losing you."
A quarter of an hour's walk brought them to the gates of Hawk Lodge. They went up the broad gravelled drive and came upon the house suddenly round a bend that skirted a clump of trees — a big neo-Jacobean mansion that looked out over terraced gardens to the haze that hid another range of hills far to the south.
A grey-haired saturnine butler with a slight foreign accent took their names.
"Miss Vickery and Mr. Vickery? Will you wait?"
He left them in the great bare hall and passed through a door which opened off it. In a few moments he came back.