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lips.
    “What is all this nonsense?” he
croaked.
    “Just a little friendly call.”
Simon poked at the bills again, wistfully. It was clear that the idea which
Nather had dragged in was gaining ground. “You and your packet of
berries— me and my little effort at housebreaking. On second
thoughts,” said the Saint, reaching a decision with apparent
reluctance, “I am afraid I shall have to borrow these. Just sitting and looking at
them like this is getting me all worked up.”
    Nather stiffened up in his chair, his flabby
hands curling up into lumpish fists; but the gun in the Saint’s hand never wavered
from the even keel that held it centred on the help less judge like a finger of fate. Nather’s
small eyes flickered like burning agates as
the Saint gathered up the stack of notes with a sweeping gesture and dropped them into his pocket; but he did not try to challenge the threat of the
.38 Coltthat hovered a scanty yard from his midriff. His impotent
wrath exploded in a staccato clip of
words that rasped gropingly through the stillness.
    “Damn you—I’ll see that you don’t get
away with this!”
    “I believe you would,” agreed Simon
amiably. “I admit that it isn’t particularly tactful of me to do
things like this to you, especially in this man’s city. It’s a pity you don’t
feel sociable. We might have had a lovely evening together, and then if
I ever got caught and brought up in your court you’d burst into tears
and direct the jury to acquit me—just like you’d have done with Jack Irboll
eventually, if he hadn’t had such a tragic accident. But I suppose one
can’t have everything. . … Never mind. Tell me how much I’ve
borrowed and I’ll give
you a receipt.”
    The pallor was gone from Nather’s cheeks,
giving place to a savage flush. A globule of perspiration trickled down
his cheek and hung quivering at the side of his jaw.
    “There were twenty thousand dollars
there,” he stated hoarsely.
    The Saint raised his eyebrows.
    “Not so bad,” he drawled quietly,
“for blood money.”
    Nather’s head snapped up, and a fleeting
panic widened the irises of his eyes; but he said nothing. And the
Saint smiled again.
    “Pardon me. In the excitement of the
moment, and all that sort of thing, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m
afraid I’ve had you at a disadvantage. My name is Templar— Simon
Templar”—he caught the flash of stark hypnotic fear that
blanched the big man’s lips, and grinned even more gently. “You may
have heard of me. I am the Saint.”
    A tremor went over the man’s throat, as he
swallowed me chanically out of a parched mouth. He spoke between
twitch ing lips.
    “You’re the man who sent Irboll that
note.”
    “And killed him,” said the Saint
quietly. The lilt of banter was lingering only in the deepest undertones
of his voice— the surface of it was as smooth and cold as a shaft of
polished ice. “Don’t forget that, Nather. You let him out—and
I killed him.”
    The judge stirred in his chair, a movement
that was no more than the uncontrollable reaction of nerves strained
be yond the limits of their strength. His mouth shaped an almost inaudible
sentence.
    “What do you want?”
    “Well, I thought we might have a little
chat.” Simon’s foot swung again, in that easy, untroubled
pendulum. “I thought you might know things. You seem to have been
quite a pal of Jack’s. According to the paper I was reading tonight,
you were the man who signed his permit to carry the gun that killed
Ionetzki. You were the guy who signed the writ of habeas corpus to get
Irboll out when they first pulled him in. You were the guy who
adjourned him the last time he was brought up. And three years ago, it seems,
you were the guy who acquitted our same friend Irboll along with four
others who were tried for the murder of a kid named Billie Valcross. One way and
another; Algernon, it looks like you must be quite a useful sort
of friend for a bloke to