"The machine gun," he reflected, "was Pinky's voluntary. Weald would have thought of the prussic acid in the milk. We're still waiting for Jill's contribution — and it might be very cunning to meet it halfway."
The inspiration, duly considered, appealed to him; and he gave fresh instructions to the driver.
The door of the house in Belgrave Street was a long time opening in response to his peal on the bell. Perhaps to make up for this, it was very quick in starting to shut again as soon as Frederick Wells had recognized the caller. But Simon Templar was more than ordinarily skilful at thrusting himself in where he was not wanted.
"Not good enough, Freddie," he drawled regretfully, and closed the door himself — from the inside.
The butler glowered.
"Miss Trelawney is out," he said.
"You lie, Ferdinand," said the Saint pleasantly, and went on up the stairs.
He really had no idea whether the butler was lying or not, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt. As it happened, this generous impulse was justified, for Jill Trelawney opened the door of the sitting room just as Simon put his hand on the knob.
"Hullo," said the Saint amiably.
His eyes flickered with an offensively secret mirth, and he caught the answering blaze from hers before she veiled them in a frozen inscrutability.
"Lovely day, Jill," remarked the Saint, very amiably.
She relaxed wearily against the jamb.
"My — sainted — aunt! Have you got away from your keeper again?"
"Looks like it," said the Saint apologetically. "Yes, I will stay to tea, thanks. Ring down to the kitchen and tell them not to mix arsenic with the sugar, because I don't take sugar. And it's no use putting strychnine in the milk, because I don't take milk. Just tell 'em to shovel the whole bag of tricks in the teapot."
He walked calmly past her into the room, and sat down in the best chair. As an afterthought, he removed his hat.
The girl followed him in.
"Is your posse outside again?"
"I wonder?" said the Saint. "Why don't you go out and ask? You don't know where you are just now, do you? One time I tell you I haven't a posse, and I haven't. Another time I tell you I have a posse and I haven't. Now suppose I tell you I haven't a posse you'll know I have, won't you?"
She shrugged and took a cigarette from a silver box. Then she offered the box to him.
"Have one?"
"Not with you, darling."
"Did I hear you say 'No, thanks'?"
"Er — no, I don't think so," said the Saint seriously. "Did you?"
With the smoke trickling through her lips the girl looked at him.
"Have you come on business this time?" she inquired. "Or is this just another part of the official persecution?"
"Partly on business, partly on pleasure," said Simon, unabashed. "Which will you have first?"
"The business, please."
"It's a pleasure," said the Saint accommodatingly. "I've come to do you a good turn, Jill."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, that is so. Oh, yeah? Yeah. Ses you? Ses me. In fact, yes… I want to warn you. A dark man is going to cross your path. Beware of him. His name is Slinky Dyson."
The name roused no more response than a flicker of her eyelids.
"What about him?"
"He is a police spy," said the Saint solemnly. "I have been able to buy him over. In return for a cash reward he is going to try to join your gang and give me all the information about you that he can get hold of. So, whatever happens, don't be taken in by him."
She read with glittering eyes the dancing devil of amusement behind his expressionlessness.
"Is this another of your funny stories?"
"It is." The Saint sighed. "In fact, it's one of my best. Do you know, Jill, I'm afraid you're going to get in a devil of a muddle about me, aren't you? First the business of the posse, then this. Now, do you think I'm telling you the truth in the hope that you will think I'm bluffing and fall into the trap, or do you think I'm inventing the yarn to keep you away from a man I don't want you to have? I can't help thinking that some of these questions are going to make life very difficult for you for the next few days."
She tapped her cigarette delicately on the edge of an ashtray.
"Is that all you came to say?" she asked patiently.
"Not quite," said the Saint, in that tone of gentle mockery that would have been like sandpaper rasped across the nerves of anyone less self-possessed. "I just wanted to ask one thing — about your father."
She faced him.
"Haven't I told you," she said dangerously, "to leave my father out of this?"
"I know," said the Saint. "And I've told you that I shall bring anyone into it whom I choose to bring in. So we know where we are. And now listen to this. I've been making some inquiries about your father, and I've come on a name which interests me. It may mean something to you. The name is — Waldstein."
She stared at him narrowly.
"Well?"
The monosyllable dropped like a flake of hot metal.
"I thought you might be after him," said the Saint. "Do you mind telling me if I'm right?"
Slowly she nodded. "You're quite right — Templar!"
The Saint beamed.
"That's one of the most sensible things I've heard you say," he remarked. "In fact, if you concentrated your attention on Waldstein you'd be doing yourself and everyone else much more good than you're doing at present. If your father was framed, Waldstein knows all about it. I'll tell you that. But what good you expect to do by simply making yourself a nuisance to the police force in general is more than my logical mind can see."
She pointed to the table.
"I suppose you've seen the papers?"
"We have. All about the inefficiency of the police. Of course, everybody doesn't know that I'm in charge of the situation. But does it give you the satisfaction you want?"
"It gives me some satisfaction."
"We are also amused," said Simon. "The chiefs of the C. I. D. meet together twice a day to roar with laughter over it… And I think that's all for today. I'll see you again soon. If you like, I'll drop you a line to say when I'm coming, so that you can arrange to be out."
"Perhaps," she said silkily, "you will not be in a position to come again. So you might save the stamp."
"That's all right," said the Saint easily. "I shouldn't have stamped the letter."
He stood up and picked up his hat, which he brushed carefully with his sleeve. She made no move to delay him.
At the door he turned for his parting shot.
"Just for information," he said, "is there going to be any trouble about my leaving this time?"
"No," she said quietly. "Not just now."
He smiled.
"Something else arranged, I suppose. Not machine guns, I hope. And no more poisoned milk. I don't want you to let yourself down by repeating yourself too often, you know."
"You won't be in suspense for long," she said.
"I'm glad to hear it," said the Saint, with intense earnestness. "Well, bye-bye, old dear."
He strolled down the stairs, humming a little tune.
No one attempted to stop him. The hall was deserted. He let himself out and sauntered down Belgrave Street, swinging his stick.
As a bluffing interview it had not borne the fruit he had hoped for. Since their first encounters, the girl had recovered a great deal of the poise and self-control that his studied impudence had at first been able to flurry her into losing. On that occasion she had given nothing away of importance — only that she had an interest in Waldstein. This was perhaps one interest that Simon Templar shared with her wholeheartedly.