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carton beside
him before they switched furtively back to the Saint’s face.
    “Wot
tea ?” McGuire mumbled sullenly.
    “Miracle
Tea,” said the Saint gently. “The juice that pours balm into
the twinging tripes. That’s what you came here for tonight, Red. You
came here to swipe my beautiful packet of gut-grease and leave some phony
imitation behind instead!”
    McGuire
glowered at him stubbornly.
    “I
dunno wot yer talkin’ abaht.”
    “Don’t
you?” said the Saint, and his smile had become almost affectionate.
“Then you’re going to find the next half hour tremendously
instructive.”
    He
straightened up and reached over for a steel chair that stood
close to him, and slid it across in the direction of his guest.
    “Don’t
you find the floor rather hard?” he said. “Take a pew and
make yourself happy, because it looks as if we may be in for a longish
talk.”
    A wave of
his gun added a certain amount of emphasis to the invitation, and
there was a crispness in his eyes that car ried even more
emphasis than the gun.
    McGuire
hauled himself up hesitantly and perched on the edge of the chair, And
the Saint beamed at him.
    “Now
if you’ll look in the top drawer of the desk, Pat—I think there’s quite a
collection of handcuffs there. About three pairs ought to be enough. One
for each of his ankles, and one to fasten his hands behind him.”
    McGuire
shifted where he sat.
    “Wot’s
the idea?” he demanded uneasily.
    “Just
doing everything we can to make you feel at home,” answered the Saint
breezily. “Would you mind putting your hands behind you so that the lady can fix
you up ? … Thanks ever so much…. Now if
you’ll just move your feet back up against
the legs of the chair—— ”
    Rebellious
rage boiled behind the other’s sulky scowl, a rage that had its roots in a formless but
intensifying fear. But the Saint’s steady
hand held the conclusive argument, and he
kept that argument accurately aligned on McGuire’s wishbone until the
last cuff had been locked in place and the strong-arm
expert was shackled to the steel chair-frame as solidly as if he had
been riveted on to it.
    Then Simon put down his
automatic and languidly flipped open the
cigarette box.
    “I
hate to do this to you,” he said conversationally, “but we’ve
really got to do something about that memory of yours. Or have you
changed your mind about answering a few questions ?”
    McGuire
glared at him without replying.
    Simon
touched a match to his cigarette and glanced at Patricia through a placid trail
of smoke.
    “Can
I trouble you some more, darling? If you wouldn’t mind plugging in that old electric
curling-iron of yours——”
    McGuire’s
eyes jerked and the handcuffs clinked as he strained against them.
    “Go on, why don’t yer call
the cops ?” he blurted hoarsely. “You
can’t do anything to me!”
    The Saint
strolled over to him.
    “Just
who do you think is going to stop me?” he asked kindly.
    He slipped
his hands down inside McGuire’s collar, one on each side of the
neck, and ripped his shirt open clear to the waist with one
swift wrench that sprung the buttons pinging across the room like bullets.
    “Get
it good and hot, darling,” he said over his shoulder, “and we’ll see
how dear old Red likes the hair on his chest waved.”
     
    VI
     
    R ED M C G UIRE stared up
at the Saint’s gentle smile and ice-cold eyes, and the breath stopped in his
throat. He was by no means a timorous man, but he knew when to be afraid—or
thought he did.
    “You
ain’t given me a charnce, guv’nor,” he whined. “Why don’t yer
arsk me somethink I can answer ? I don’t want to give no
trouble.”
    Simon
turned away from him to flash a grin at Patricia— a grin that McGuire
was never meant to see.
    “Go
ahead and get the iron, sweetheart,” he said, with bloodcurdling
distinctness, and winked at her. “Just in case old dear Red changes
his mind.”
    Then the
wink and the grin vanished together as