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a knuckle against his lips
before responding.
    “Well, then,” he
said, “the man who was talking to the woman with the silver dress—who is
he?”
    Julie Norcombe let her
spoon remain in the half-finished bowl of strawberries. “He seemed to work
in the place, and to be sell ing that woman a
painting.”
    “Does that surprise
you?” Simon asked.
    “Well, yes.”
    “Why should it? After
all, he’s the owner.”
    “He owns that art
gallery?”
    “Yes, he does.”
    She was openly
astonished.
    “I don’t suppose he
has a twin brother, does he?”
    “Not that I know of.
    “I think the
picture’s developed enough for us to hang it up to dry,”
said the Saint. He leaned towards her and spoke swiftly. . “You know Cyril Pargit, but you know him under another name. An
obvious reason would be the married man trying to keep the girlfriend from finding out he has a wife. Girlfriend comes
to London, stumbles on him in a place he isn’t supposed
to be, et cetera. The only trouble with that is
that Cyril doesn’t have a wife. But he could be
trying to keep two or more girlfriends from discovering one another’s
existence. Is it anything that simple?”
    “No,” she said
almost indignantly. “I’m not an absolute idiot. But you’re right about the
part where I know that man by a dif ferent name.
Except of course that it just isn’t possible.”
    “Tell me why.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Apparently you think
there’s some danger involved if you tell me?”
    “I … Yes.”
    “Well, suppose we make a trade. I’m going
to tell you some thing which you could use
to spoil everything I’m trying to do at the moment. All you have to do is tip
Pargit off and I’m licked before I
start. But I can’t expect you to stick your neck out if I don’t.” He pushed his almost untasted coffee
aside and rested his forearms on the
table. “I believe that dear Cyril is a con-man and a fraud. In fact I know he is, but perhaps not in
a way that makes him liable to arrest just at the moment. I’ve taken an interest
in it because he cheated an old lady who’s a friendly neighbour of mine. Does that help?” Julie Norcombe nodded.
“Well, then, how about telling
me why you’re interested.”
    “I don’t know what
to tell you,” she said tensely. “I’ve been told
that I’ll be breaking the law if I say anything. Let me see how I can
put it … Something happened. Some
people who said they were with the Special
Branch came to where I live and told me not to say anything to anybody,
but to see a man at Whitehall who would explain it all to me. I went to
Whitehall and saw the man, and he told
me not to say anything to any body.
He even told me not to tell anybody I’d seen him, so you see, I’m already
getting into trouble. Except—the man I saw at Whitehall is the same man I just
saw at that gallery…”
    “Cyril Pargit,”
the Saint said.
    “That’s right.”
    “Very strange indeed. What department was
this Whitehall man in?”
    “Something to do with
the Official Secrets Acts. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but his name was
Fawkes.”
    “And you saw him in
Whitehall?”
    “Yes. In an office
there.”
    “And you won’t tell me
what it was that happened that got you sent to see
this Guy Fawkes in the first place?”
    She was very subdued, very
nervous about what she had told him already and the fact
that she desperately wanted to tell him more.
    “My brother was
arrested. He didn’t come home the night before last, and they came and told me
he’d been arrested.”
    “In connection with
the Official Secrets Act?” Simon filled in. “What
does your brother do that involves him with official se crets?”
    Julie spread her hands
helplessly.
    “Nothing! Nothing at
all that I know of. He’s an artist. I don’t think
he’d know an official secret if he found it on his dinner plate.”
    Noting she had finished her strawberries and
drunk all her coffee, Simon asked her if
she would like anything more.