"I cannot think how we missed you, my dear Mr. Templar," he said quietly. "Has your car also met with an accident?"
"My car is yours," said the Saint lavishly. He grinned gently at the prince's moveless puzzlement. "To tell you the truth, old dear, it always was. And while we're on the subject, in case you should be thinking of giving me a lift some other time, I wish you'd have something done about that roof. A couple of good strong coffin-handles would make a heap of difference; and if you had enough money left after that to stand me an air-cushion——"
"So!" There was a gleam like the lustre of white-hot metal in the prince's narrowed eyes, and the same lustrous malignity in his soft utterance of that trenchant syllable. "Do I understand that you have been with us all the time?"
Simon nodded.
"Sweetheart, I hope you do." He smiled again, with captivating sweetness. "Well, well, well—we none of us grow younger, do we? But how the old Borstal boys will chortle over this! Turn round, Rudolf, and let me have your gun—there's a nasty look in your eye which makes me think you might do something foolish at any moment."
He whizzed the prince's automatic neatly from his pocket and went on to disarm the chauffeur in the same way. With their artillery transferred to his own person, he leaned on the side panel of the limousine and regarded the two men affectionately.
"This has been what I call a really jolly little evening," he drawled. "I suppose we've all lost a certain amount of sleep, but you can't have it both ways." He tapped the strong-box which he carried under his left arm. "Would you like me to send you a priced catalogue of the boodle when I've had time to look it over? You might like to buy one of the items as a souvenir."
For a while the prince stared at him in silence. And then he also smiled.
"You win, my dear Mr. Templar. Accept my congratulations." After a moment's hesitation, he drew a crocodile-skin case from his breast pocket. "If I were not afraid you would laugh at me," he said apologetically, "I should ask you to accept a cigar as well."
"Don't tempt me, Rudolf," said the Saint amiably. "You know my sense of humour."
The prince laughed.
"All the same," he said, "I wish you could believe that there are depths of childishness to which even I have not yet descended." He extended the case diffidently. "In the circumstances, this is the only sporting gesture I can make."
Simon glanced down disparagingly.
And at that instant, before he could make a movement to protect himself, a jet of liquid ammonia struck him squarely between the eyes, and everything was blotted out in an agonizing intensity of blindness. It seared his eyeballs like the caress of red-hot irons, and his gasp of pain sucked the acrid fumes chokingly down into his lungs. He staggered sideways and fired twice as he did so; and then the gun was torn out of his hand and he was flung to the ground under a crushing weight
A vise-like constriction of thick, powerful fingers fastened on his windpipe. He struck out savagely and tore at the throttling hands; but he was half paralyzed with pain, and his chest seemed to be filled with nothing but the stinging vapour of ammonia. The blood roared in his ears, and he felt everything receding from him. . . .
And then he heard the prince's infinitely distant voice.
"That will be sufficient, Ludwig."
Almost imperceptibly, it seemed, the pressure was loosened from his throat, and the air flowed back into his lungs. The weight lifted from his chest, and he rolled away with his hands covering his eyes.
Presently, out of the spangled darkness, he heard the prince speaking again.
"An unfortunate necessity, my dear young friend. I have never felt comfortable in such a position as the one in which you placed me. But your distress, I assure you, is only temporary."
Simon lay still, with his lungs heaving. He heard the striking of a match and thought he could distinguish the light of it from the pungent flashes of colour that kaleidoscoped across his optic nerves.
"I think you had better enter the car," said the prince urbanely—and Simon could visualize him vividly, with his cigarette glowing in the long jade holder and his dark eyes satirically veiled. "I fear that your present attitude might provoke undue curiosity."
It was the chauffeur who dragged Simon to his feet and hustled him into the limousine.
The Saint went without resistance. He knew the futility of squandering any more of his strength at that moment, while he was still half blinded and unarmed. He allowed himself to be bundled roughly into a comer, and felt the prince's weight sinking onto the cushions beside him, and the muzzle of the prince's gun thrusting into his ribs. And then the Saint managed to open one of his twingeing eyes, and saw the lights of a car coming down the road.
2
"I need not bother to tell you," murmured the prince's velvety intonation, "what would happen if you were so unwise as to endeavour to attract attention."
Simon said nothing.
The headlights of the approaching car shone straight into the limousine, bathing the tableau in a garish blaze. Certainly there was nothing whatever about it to arouse suspicion. Prince Rudolf and the Saint, two amicable orphans of the storm, were patiently waiting to continue their fraternal journey; what time their chauffeur, diligently bent double over the hind quarters of the chariot, was working to repair the mishap that had delayed them. A mournful and pathetic scene, no doubt, but by no means so uncommon that it should have imbued the innocent wayfarer with anything but thankfulness for his own better fortune. . . . And yet the other car was slowing up as it went past them, and through the rear window of the limousine they could see it pull in to the side of the road a few yards further on. . . .
Prince Rudolf looked at the Saint again, and spilled a short cylinder of ash deliberately into the tray beside him.
"If this should be your friend," he said, "your actions will have to be extraordinarily discreet."
A man was walking towards them from the other car. As he drew nearer, a glint of light shimmered on his helmet and flickered over the trappings of his uniform. He came to the side of the limousine and opened the door, standing stiffly in the opening. His face was in the shadow.
"Entschuldigen Sie mich, mein Herr——"
The Saint never moved a muscle; and yet the whole of his inside was singing. For the stilted accent was impeccable, but the voice was Monty Hayward's.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you know this man?"
He addressed the prince, and indicated Simon with a curt movement of his head.
The prince smiled faintly.
"I cannot say," he answered, "that he is a friend of mine."
"Your name, please?"
The prince took out his wallet and extracted a card. Monty carried it to one of the side lamps and studied it. When he came back, he clicked his heels.
"I beg your Highness's pardon. Perhaps your Highness does not know the identity of his guest?"
"I should like to be informed."
"He is a desperate criminal who calls himself the Saint. He is wanted on many charges. He has already to-night thrown three detectives into the river."
For a fraction of a second the prince paused.
And then, with a deprecatory shrug, he showed his gun,
"I am not surprised," he said calmly. "As a matter of fact, he has also attempted to rob me." He placed one hand on the strong-box which lay on the seat beside him. "I have some family heirlooms with me which would naturally attract a thief of his calibre. But happily my chauffeur and myself were able to overpower him. We were about to take him to the Po-lizeiamt; but possibly you could save us the trouble."
Simon had to admire the consummate skill with which the part was played. It was an accomplished feat of impromptu histrionics which won the unstinted applause of his artistic soul. The prince was a past master. His unruffled frankness, his engaging modesty, his felicitous rendering of the whole poise of royalty accidentally embroiled in the sordid excitements of common lawlessness—every delicate touch was irreproachable.