They were late that morning, and Orace left to fetch Patricia as soon as he had served "brekfuss." The girl arrived in half an hour, to find the Saint spread-eagled in a deck chair outside the Pill Box. He had managed to unearth another pair of flannel bags and another shooting jacket that were nearly as disreputable as the outfit which had been wrecked in Bittle's garden the night before, and he looked very fresh and comfortable, for his shirt, as usual, would have put snow to shame.
^He jumped up and held out both his hands, and She gave him both of hers.
"I haven't seen you for ages," he said. "How are we?
"Fine," she told him. "And nothing happened."
She was cool and slim in white, and he thought he had never seen anyone half so lovely,
"Something might have," he said. "And when I was a Boy Scout they taught me to Be Prepared."
He rigged a chair for her and adjusted the cushions, and then he sat down again.
"I know you're bursting with curiosity," he said, "so I'll come straight to the 'osses."
And without further ado he started on the long history. He told her about Fernando, dying out in the jungle with a Tiger Cub's kris in him, and he told her Fernando's story. He told her about the Tiger, who was for years Chicago's most brilliant and terrible gang leader. He told her about some of the Tiger's exploits, and finally came to the account of the breaking of the Confederate Bank. Some of the details Fernando had told him; the rest he had gathered together by patient investigation; the accumulation worked up into a plot hair-raising enough to provide the basis of the wildest film serial that was ever made.
"The Tiger's very nearly a genius," he said. "The way he got away with that mint of money and carted it all the miles to here is just a sample of his brain."
Then he told her about the more recent events the little he had learned while he had been in Baycombe. How he had been suspected from the day of his arrival, and how he had done his best to encourage that suspicion, in the hope that the other side would give themselves away trying to dispose of him. Gradually the lie of the land took shape in her mind, while the Saint talked on, putting in a touch of character here and there, recalling points that he had omitted, and referring to details that he had not yet given. The story was not told smoothly it rattled out, paused, and rattled on again, decorated with the Saint's typical racy idiom and humorous egotism. Nevertheless, it held her, and it was a convincing story, for the Saint had a gift for graphic description. She saw the scenes at which she had been present in a new light.
He ended up with a flippant account of the sport chezBittle after he had helped her get away.
"And there you have it," he concluded. "Heard in cold blood, with the sun shining and all that, it sounds preposterous enough to make dear old Munchausen look like gospel. But you've seen a bit of it yourself, and perhaps that'll make it easier for you to believe the rest. And what it boils down to is that the Tiger is in Baycombe, and so am I, and so are the pieces of eight; and the Tiger wants my head on a tin tray, and I want his ill-gotten gains, and we're both pretty keen to hang on to our respective possessions. So, taken by and large, it looks like we shall come to blows and other Wild and Woolly Western expressions of mutual ill feeling. And the point is, Pat, and the reason why I felt you had a right to know all the odds is that you've gone and cut in on the game. By last night, the Tiger had to face the risk that I might have talked to you, and the way you behaved generally won't have eased his mind any. You might be a danger or you might not, but he can't afford to take chances. To be on the safe side, he's got to assume that you and I are as thick as thieves. So you see, old soul, you're slap in the middle of this here jamboree, whether you like it or not. You're cast for second juvenile lead in the bloodcurdling melodrama now playing, and your name's up in red lights all round the Tiger's den and the question before the house is. What Do We Do About It?
He was leaning forward so that he could see her face, and she knew that he was desperately serious. She knew also, instinctively, that he was not a man to exaggerate the situation, however' much he might play the buffoon in other directions.
"Now, here's my suggestion," said the Saint. "I know a bloke called Terry Mannering, who lives on the other side of Devonshire, and he can deal with fun and games as well as I can. He has a wife, whom you'll love, and a very good line in yachts, being nearly as rich as I should like to be since his Old Man kicked the bucket. If I took you over and told Terry that it'd be good for all your healths if you went cruising way off for a few months, till the tumult and the shouting dies, so to speak, and the Tigers and their Cubs depart well, I know the three of you'd be on the high seas in no time. And the Tiger and I would be rude to each other for a bit, and when it was all over and he was decently buried I'd let you know and you could come back. What about it?"
Patricia studied her shoe; and she said, in a very Saintly way:
"What, indeed?"
"You said?" rapped Simon.
"What about it?" queried Patricia. "It might be rather a good idea some time, but you can't rush it like that. Besides, I'm rather enjoying myself in Baycombe."
Simon got up.
"Well, I'm not enjoying your enjoyment," he said bluntly. "That sort of courage is all very fine when it's to some purpose but this time it isn't. I've never dragged a woman into my little worries yet, and I'm not starting now. Perhaps you think this is going to be a picnic. I thought I'd made it plain enough that it isn't. If you want to pack a few thrills into your young life, I'll arrange a big-game shooting trip, or something else comparatively tame, later. But this particular spree is not in your line one bit, and you'd better be sensible and admit it."
Patricia raised her eyebrows.
"So I gather you propose to kidnap me," she said calmly. "I believe 'shanghai' is the word. Well, I should start planning right away because nothing short of that is going to move me."
"You're a damned fool," said the Saint.
She laughed, standing up to him and laying a hand on his shoulders.
"Dear man," she said, "I refuse to lose my temper, because I know that's just what you want me to do. You think that if you're rude enough I'll dash off and leave you to stew. And I can promise you I shan't do anything of the sort. I know it isn't going to be a picnic but I'm sorry if you think I'm a girl that's only fit for picnics. I've always fancied myself as the heroine of a hell-for-leather adventure, and this is probably the only chance I Shall 'ever have. And I'm jolly well going to see it through!"
Something held him in check with an effort. He had a frantic impulse to take this stubborn slip of a girl across his knee and spank some sense into her; and coincidently with that he had an equally importunate desire to hug her and kiss her to death. For there was no doubt that she was determined to ride on to the kill, however dangerous the country her obstinate intention led her over. Why she should be so set on it beat the Saint. He could imagine a high-spirited girl fancying herself as the heroine of just such an adventure, but he had never dreamed of meeting a girl who'd go on fancying herself quite so keenly when it came to the point, and when she'd had a peek at some of the stern and spiky disadvantages. But there she was, smiling into his eyes, tranquilly announcing her resolution to see the shooting match through with him, and boldly averring that she was perfectly prepared to eat the whole cake as well as the icing. She was going to be the blazes of a nuisance and the mischief of a worry to him "But, hell!" swore the Saint to himself "I'm darn glad of it!" Wherein he betrayed his egotism. It would be a gruelling test for her, but he'd have her with him all the time. And if she came through it with flying colours, well, maybe after all he'd go the way of most confirmed bachelors.. ..