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you were described to me, I could
scarcely believe that our acquaintance was to be renewed.”
    Simon Templar looked at him through a sort of
haze.
    His memory went careering back over two
years—back to the tense days of battle, murder, and sudden death, when
that slight, fastidious figure had juggled the fate of Europe in his delicate hands, and the
monstrous evil presence of Rayt Marius, the
war maker, had loomed horribly across an unsuspecting world; when the Saint and his two friends had
fought their lone forlorn fight for
peace, and Norman Kent laid down his life for many people. And then again to
their second encoun ter, three months
afterwards, when the hydra had raised its head again in a new guise, and Norman Kent had been remembered… .
Everything came back to him with a startling and blinding vividness, summed up and crystallized in the superhuman repose of that slim, dominating
figure—the man of steel and velvet, as
the Saint would always picture him, the stormy petrel of the Balkans, the outlaw of Europe, the man who in his
own strange way was the most fanatical patriot of the age; marvellously groomed, sleek as a
sword-blade, smil ing. …
    With a conscious effort the Saint pulled
himself together. Out of that maelstrom of reminiscence, one thing stood
out a couple of miles. If Prince Rudolf was participating in the spree, the
soup into which he had dipped his spoon was liable to contain so little
poppycock that the taste would be almost imperceptible. Somewhere in the
environs of Innsbruck big medicine was being brewed; the theory of ordinary
boodle in some shape or form, which the Saint had automatically ac cepted as
the explanation of that natty little strong-box, was wafted away to
inglorious annihilation. And somewhere behind that smiling mask of polished
ice were locked away the key threads of the intrigue.
    “Rudolf—my dear old college chum!”
Mirthfully, blissfully, the Saint’s voice went out in an expansive
hail of welcome. “This is just like old times! … Monty, you must
let me in troduce you: this is His Absolute Altitude, the Crown
Prince, Rudolf himself, who was with us in all the fun and games a year or two
ago… . Rudolf, meet Saint Montague Hayward, chairman of the Royal
Commission for Investigating the In cidence of Psittacosis among
Dromedaries, and managing editor of The Blunt Instrument, canonized
this very day for assassinating a reader who thought a blackleg was
something to do with varicose veins… . And now you must let us
know what we can do for you—Highness!”
    The prince glanced down with faint distaste
at the bulge of the Saint’s pocket. Grim, steady as a rock, and
unmistakable, it had been covering him unswervingly throughout that gay cascade of nonsense, and not one of the Saint’s exaggerated movements
had contrived to veer it off its mark by the thou sandth part of an
inch.
    “I sincerely trust, my dear Mr.
Templar,” he remarked, “that you are not
contemplating any drastic foolishness. One corpse is quite sufficient
for any ordinary man to have to account for, and I cannot help
thinking that even such an enterprising young man as yourself
would find the addition of my own body somewhat inconvenient.”
    “You guess wrong,” said the Saint
tersely. “Corpses are my specialty. I collect ‘em. But still, we’re
beginning to learn things about you. From that touching speech of yours, we
gather that you belong to the bunch who presented me with the first
body. Izzat so?” The prince inclined his head.
    “It distresses me to have to admit that
one of my agents was responsible. The killing was stupid and
unnecessary. Emilio was only instructed to follow Weissmann and report to me immediately
he had reached his destination. When Weissmann was first arrested,
and then rescued and abducted by yourself, the ridiculous Emilio
lost his head. His blunder is merely a typical example of
misplaced initiative.” The prince dismissed the subject with an
airy wave of