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other views on the subject of the way in which the conversation should go, and at the first convenient pause, he came out with a remark that showed he had been paying little attention to what had gone before.
    “I’ve bought a book about card tricks,” he said. “I thought it might help me to spot sharpers. But the best part of it was the chapter on fortune-telling by cards. Take a card, and I’ll tell you all your sins.”
    He produced a new pack from his pocket and pushed it across the table towards Hayn.
    “You first, Uncle,” he invited. “And see that your thoughts are pure when you draw, otherwise you’ll give the cards a wrong impression. Hum a verse of your favourite hymn, for instance.” Mr. Hayn knew nothing about hymns, but he complied tolerantly. If this freak had all that money, and perhaps some more, by all means let him be humoured.
    “Now, isn’t that sweet!” exclaimed the Saint, taking up the card Hayn had chosen. “Jerry, my pet, your Uncle Ambrose has drawn the ace of hearts. That stands for princely generosity. We’ll have another brandy with you, Uncle, just to show how we appreciate it. Waiter!… Three more brandies, please! Face Ache-I mean Uncle Ambrose-is paying! … Uncle, you must try your luck again.”
    Simon Templar pored over Hayn’s second card until the drinks arrived. It was noticeable that his shoulders shook silently at one time. Mr. Hayn attributed this to repressed hiccups, and was gravely in error. Presently the Saint looked up. “Has an aunt on your mother’s side,” he asked solemnly, “ever suffered from a bilious attack following a meal of sausages made by a German pork butcher with a hammer-toe and three epileptic children?”
    Mr. Hayn shook his head, staring. “I haven’t any aunts,” he said.
    “I’m so sorry,” said the Saint, as if he were deeply distressed to hear of Mr. Hayn’s plight of pathetic auntlessness. “But it means the beastly book’s all wrong. Never mind. Don’t let’s bother about it.”
    He pushed the pack away. Undoubtedly he was quite mad.
    “Aren’t you going to tell us any more?” asked Stannard, with a wink to Hayn.
    “Uncle Ambrose would blush if I went on,” said Templar. “Look at the brick I’ve dropped already. But if you insist, I’ll try one more card.”
    Hayn obliged again, smiling politely. He was starting to get acclimatized. Clearly the secret of being on good terms with Mr. Templar was to let him have his own irrepressible way.
    “I only hope it isn’t the five of diamonds,” said the Saint earnestly. “Whenever I do this fortune-telling stuff, I’m terrified of somebody drawing the five of diamonds. You see, I’m bound to tell the truth, and the truth in that case is frightfully hard to tell to a comparative stranger. Because, according to my book, a man who draws the five of diamonds is liable at any moment to send an anonymous donation of ten thousand pounds to the London Hospital. Also, cards are unlucky for him, he is an abominable blackguard, and he has a repulsively ugly face.”
    Hayn kept his smile nailed in position, and faced his card. “The five of diamonds, Mr. Templar,” he remarked gently.
    “No-is it really?” said Simon, in most Saintly astonishment. “Well, well, well… There you are, Jerry-I warned you your uncle would be embarrassed if I went on. Now I’ve dropped another brick. Let’s talk of something else, quickly, before he notices. Uncle Ambrose, tell me, have you ever seen a hot dog fighting a cat-o’-nine tails? … No? … Well, shuffle the pack and I’ll show you a conjuring trick.”
    Mr. Hayn shuffled and cut, and the Saint rapidly dealt off five cards, which he passed face downwards across the table. It was about the first chance Mr. Hayn had had to sidle a word in, and he felt compelled to protest about one thing.
    “You seem to be suffering from a delusion, Mr. Templar,” he said. “I’m not Jerry’s uncle-I’m just a friend of his. My name’s