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Valerie
Woodchester,” said Patricia, “is the spoiled
darling of London Society. She uses Mond’s Van ishing Cream, Kissabel
Lipstick, and Charmante Skin Tonic. She goes
to all the right places at all the right times, and she has her photograph in the Bystander every
week. She has also stolen all my best
clothes.”
    “Don’t worry about
that, darling,” said the Saint reas suringly.
“I’ll take them off her.”
    Pat made a face at him.
    “That wouldn’t
surprise me a bit,” she said calmly.
    “The young hero who
rescued Lady Valerie,” resumed Peter, when order had been restored,
“is Captain Donald Knightley of the Dragoon
Guards. He has a fine seat on a horse and a set of
membership cards to all the best night clubs.
That’s all I could find out about him… . And that only
leaves John Kennet, the man who didn’t fit in anywhere.”
    “Yes,” said the
Saint thoughtfully. “The man who didn’t fit
in. And he seems to have been the most important one of
all.”
    Patricia made a sharp
restless movement.
    “Are you sure?”
she said, as if she was still fighting against
conviction. “After all, if Fairweather has been in Parliament, he may have got friendly with Kennet’s father—— ”
    “I wouldn’t argue.
The old man may be a bit bothered about his aitches
now and again, and he may still pretend that
he belongs to the Labour party, but he joined the national
government at the right time so of course all the duchesses
love him because they know his heart must be in
the right place. If it had been the old man, it might have been all right. But it wasn’t. It was young Kennet. And young Kennet
was a pacifist, an anti-blood-sporter, an anti- capitalist, an anti-Fascist and the Lord knows what not; and he once said publicly that his father had
proved to be the arch-Judas of the working classes. Well, there may be all sorts of harmless reasons why a fellow like
that should have been invited to join
that congregation of worshippers of
the golden calf, but you must admit that he still looks like the ideal burnt offering.”
    There was a silence, in
which the only interruption was the sound of Mr Uniatz
cautiously uncorking his private bottle of Vat 69, while their thoughts went
on.
    Peter said: “Yes. But
that isn’t evidence. You’ve been very mysterious all this
time, but you must have something more definite than
that.”
    “I’ll give you four
things,” said the Saint.
    He stood up and leaned
against one of the pillars of the porch, facing them,
very tall and dark and somehow deadly against the sunlit
peace of the garden. Their eyes were drawn as if by a
magnet.
    “One: Kennet’s door
was locked.”
    Patricia stared at him.
    “So you
mentioned,” Peter said slowly. “But if everybody who locked a door—— ”
    “I can only think of
two kinds of people who’d lock their bedroom doors when
they were staying in a private house,” said
the Saint. “Frightened virgins and—frightened men.”
    “Maybe he was
expecting a call from Lady Valerie,” suggested
Patricia half heartedly.
    “Maybe he was,”
agreed the Saint patiently. “But if that
made him lock his door, he must have been a very undiscriminating
young man. And in any case, that’s only half
of it. He not only locked his door, but he took the key
out of the lock. Now, even assuming that anyone might lock
a door, there’s only one reason for taking the key out of
the lock. And that’s when you realize that an expert might
be able to turn the key from the outside—in other words,
when you’re really thinking hard along the lines of a
pretty determined attempt to get at you.”
    “He might have been
tight when he went to bed,” Peter pointed
out. “That would account for almost any weird thing he did. And besides
that, it might account for him not hearing the fire
alarm.”
    “It might,” said
the Saint bluntly. “But while you’re at it, why don’t you think of the
other possibility? Suppose he didn’t lock the