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pulled out a cheque book and fountain-pen. He scrawled a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds and held it out.
    “Here you are. I’ll buy your cargo. Give the owner his money and keep the change. Keep the cargo. I’ll buy your whole damned ship. But take me back. D’you understand? Take me back —”
    The ship lurched under him again, and he choked. When the convulsion was over the captain was gone.
    Presently a white-coated steward entered with a cup of steaming beef-tea. Croon looked at it and shuddered.
    “Take it away,” he wailed.
    “The captain sent me with it, sir,” explained the steward. “You must try to drink it, sir. It’s the best thing in the world for the way you’re feeling. Really, sir, you’ll feel quite different after you’ve had it.”
    Croon put out a white, flabby hand. He managed to take a gulp of the hot soup; then another. It had a slightly bitter taste which seemed familiar. The cabin swam around him again, more dizzily than before, and his eyes closed in merciful drowsiness.
    He opened them in his own bedroom. His servant was drawing back the curtains, and the sun was streaming in at the windows.
    The memory of his nightmare made him feel sick again, and he clenched his teeth and swallowed desperately. But the floor underneath was quite steady. And then he remembered something else, and struggled up in the bed with an effort which threatened to overpower him with renewed nausea.
    “Give me my chequebook,” he rasped. “Quick-out of my coat pocket —”
    He opened it frantically and stared at a blank stub with his face growing haggard.
    “What’s today?” he asked.
    “This is Saturday, sir,” answered the surprised valet.
    “What time?”
    “Eleven o’clock, sir. You said I wasn’t to call you —”
    But Mr. Melford Croon was clawing for the telephone at his bedside. In a few seconds he was through to his bank in London. They told him that his cheque had been cashed at ten.
    Mr. Croon lay back on the pillows and tried to think out how it could have been done.
    He even went so far as to tell his incredible story to Scotland Yard, though he was not by nature inclined to attract the attention of the police.
    A methodical search was made in Lloyd’s Register, but no mention of a ship called the Christabel Jane could be found. Which was not surprising, for Christabel Jane was the name temporarily bestowed by Simon Templar on a dilapidated Thames tug which had wallowed very convincingly for a few hours in the gigantic tank at the World Features studio at Teddington for the filming of storm scenes at sea, which would undoubtedly have been a great asset to Mr. Croon’s Consolidated Albion Film Company if the negotiations for the lease had been successful.
The Owners’ Handicap
    “THE art of crime,” said Simon Templar, carefully mayonnaising a section of truite ŕ la gelče, “is to be versatile. Repetition breeds contempt-and promotion for flat-footed oafs from Scotland Yard. I assure you, Pat, I have never felt the slightest urge to be the means of helping any detective on his upward climb. Therefore we soak bucket-shops one week and bootleggers the next, the poor old Chief Inspector Teal never knows where he is.”
    Patricia Holm fingered the stem of her wineglass with a faraway smile. Perhaps the smile was a trifle wistful. Perhaps it wasn’t. You never know. But she had been the Saint’s partner in outlawry long enough to know what any such oratorical opening as that portended; and she smiled.
    “It dawns upon me,” said the Saint, “that our talents have not yet been applied to the crooked angles of the Sport of Kings.”
    “I don’t know,” said Patricia mildly. “After picking the winner of the Derby with a pin, and the winner of the Oaks with a pack of cards —”
    Simon waved away the argument.
    “You may think,” he remarked, “that we came here to celebrate. But we didn’t. Not exactly. We came here to feast our eyes on the celebrations of a brace of