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this ambrosia,” he
said, “I suppose we’d better just run over what
we’ve found out about these people who roast their week-end
guests.”
    “I might have known I
should be let in for this,” Peter said
moodily. “I ought to have known better than to ask you down. This was the most peaceful place in England before you came near it, but wherever you go something unpleasant happens.” He lifted his glass and drank. “However,
as usual, I’ve been doing your dirty work. Our local gossip
writer has been snooping and eavesdropping, and will
now present his report—such as it is.”
    He returned to his chair
and lighted a cigarette before he went on.
    “As you know, the
house that provided the fireworks was called Whiteways.
The owner is Mr A. S. Fairweather, a gentleman of
wealth who is highly respected in local circles.
For fifteen years he warmed a seat in the House of
Commons as Conservative M.P. for Hamborough, and for
one year just before he retired he held the job of secretary
of state for war. His abilities must have impressed some
people more than they impressed the other members’ of
that cabinet, because as soon as he retired he was offered a place on the board of the Norfelt Chemical Company, where he has sat ever since. He has a town house in Grosvenor Square, a Rolls Royce, and he has recently subscribed five hundred pounds toward the restoration of our local parish church—which means that he either has, or has not, a ripe sense of humour.”
    Down by the bottles
something stirred. It was something that looked rather
like a reconstruction of the Piltdown Man might have
looked if it had been first badly mauled with
a sledge hammer and then encased in a brilliant check suit.
    “I know a guy once
what has a chemical factory,” announced Hoppy
Uniatz, with the happy interest of a big-game hunter who
hears the conversation veering round to the subject of
big game. “He makes any kind of liquor. Just say de woid, an’ it’s rye or
boigundy wit’ all de labels an’ everyting.” A
thought appeared to strike him in a vital spot.
“Say, maybe we got someting, boss. Maybe dis guy Fairwedder
is in de same racket.”
    The Saint sighed.
    Between Simon and Peter
there was the understanding of men who had fought
shoulder to shoulder in many bat tles. Between Simon and
Hoppy Uniatz there was no such bond, since Nature, by
some unfortunate oversight, had neglected to provide Mr Uniatz with any more
gray matter than was required for the elementary
functions of eating, drinking and handling firearms. He was at once the joy and despair of Simon’s life; but his dumb devotion to
what he regarded as the positively supernatural genius of the Saint was so wistful that Simon had never had the heart to let him go.
    “No, Hoppy,” he
said. “That stuff only burns your throat.
The Norfelt product burns you all over.”
    “Chees,” said Mr
Uniatz admiringly. “Where do ya git dis
stuff?”
    “It’s dropped from
aeroplanes,” explained Peter. “In large
containers weighing about six hundred pounds each.”
    Mr Uniatz looked worried.
    “But what happens when
dey hit de ground?”
    “They break,”
said Peter. “That’s the whole idea. Think it over, Hoppy, while I go on
with my gossip column.”
    He refreshed himself again
and continued:
    “Brigadier-General
Sir Robert Sangore has stayed with Fairweather before.
During his last visit he delivered a stirring address to
the Church Lads’ Brigade, in which Com rade
Fairweather takes a benevolent interest. He warned them
particularly against Socialists, Communists, and Paci fists,
and told them that the Great War was a glorious spree for
everyone who fought in it. He graduated from Sand hurst
in the year Dot, served all over the place, got into the
War Office in 1917 and stayed there until 1930, when he retired to become a
director of the Wolverhampton Ordnance Company. He is an
officer, a gentleman and a member of the Cavalry
Club.”
    “Lady