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production of a Work of Art. This consisted of the picture of a little man, drawn with a round blank head and straight-lined body and limbs, as a child draws, but wearing above his cerebellum, at a somewhat rakish angle, a halo such as few children’s drawings portray. Then he took an envelope, which he addressed to Francis Lemuel. He posted his completed achievement within the hotel.
    At half-past one he burst in upon Patricia Holm, declaring himself ravenous for lunch.
    “With beer,” he said. “Huge foaming mugs of it. Brewed at Burton, and as stark as they make it.”
    “And what’s Francis Lemuel’s secret?” she asked.
    He shrugged.
    “Don’t spoil the homecoming,” he said. “I hate to tell you, but I haven’t come within miles of it in a whole blinkin’ week.”
    He did not think it necessary to tell her that he had deliberately signed and sealed his own death warrant, for of late she had become rather funny that way.
    5
There are a number of features about this story which will always endear it-in a small way to the Saint’s memory. He likes its logical development, and the neat way in which the divers factors dovetail into one another with an almost audible click; he likes the crisp precision of the earlier episodes, and purrs happily as he recalls the flawless detail of his own technique in those episodes; but particularly is he lost in speech less admiration when he considers the overpowering brilliance of the exercise in inductive psychology which dictated his manner of pepping up the concluding states of the adventure.
    Thus he reviewed the child of his genius:
“The snow retails at about sixty pounds an ounce, in the unauthorized trade; and I must have poured about seventy thousand pounds’ worth down the sink. Oh, yes, it was a good idea-to fetch over several years’ supply at one go, almost without risk. And then, of course, according to schedule, I should have been quietly fired, and no one but Uncle Francis would have been any the wiser. Instead of which, Uncle’s distributing organization, whatever that may be, will shortly be howling in full cry down Jermyn Street to ask Uncle what he means by ladling them out a lot of tins of ordinary white flour. Coming on top of the letter which will be shot in by the late post tonight, this question will cause a distinct stir. And, in the still small hours, Uncle Francis will sit down to ponder the ancient problem-What Should ‘A’ Do?”
    This was long afterwards, when the story of Francis Lemuel was ancient history. And the Saint would gesture with his cigarette, and beam thoughtfully upon the assembled congregation, and presently proceed with his exposition:
“Now, what should ‘A’ do, dear old streptococci? … Should he woofle forth into the wide world, and steam into Scotland Yard, bursting with information? … Definitely not. He has no information that he can conveniently lay. His egg, so to speak, has addled in the oviduct… . Then should he curse me and cut his losses and leave it at that? … Just as definitely not. I have had no little publicity in my time; and he knows my habits. He knows that I haven’t finished with him yet. He knows that, unless he gets his counterattack in quickly, he’s booked to travel down the drain in no uncertain manner… . Then should he call in a few tough guys and offer a large reward for my death certificate? … I think not. Francis isn’t that type. … He has a wholesome respect for the present length of his neck; and he doesn’t fancy the idea of having it artificially extended in a whitewashed shed by a gentleman in a dark suit one cold and frosty morning. He knows that that sort of thing is frequently happening-sometimes to quite clever murderers. … So what does he do?”
    And what Francis Lemuel did was, of course, exactly what the Saint had expected. He telephoned in the evening, three days later, and Simon went round to Jermyn Street after dinner-with a gun in his pocket in case of