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mean he’s aged, exactly,” he explained. “Just … changed.”
    “Well, /haven’t noticed it,” put in the large contralto decisively, as if that must be the end of the matter.
    The Saint shrugged.
    “Oh well, it was just an impression. Perhaps I’m wrong.” And then, as Ariadne Two appeared at his side and touched him on the arm, he added, “Will you excuse me?” and followed the girl through the far doorway.
    “Mr Patroclos would like to talk to you privately,” she explained, as they passed through a small communicating room into the library beyond.
    The room was fully pine-panelled, its walls lined with sunken bookshelves stuffed full of leather-bound volumes. Two big showcases full of choice glassware dominated one side of the room; and from a solid compact mahogany desk in one corner, the double of Diogenes Patroclos stared at Simon Templar with piercing interest.
    Ariadne Two closed the door softly, leaving them alone.
    The likeness was incredible. To any ordinary observation this was the same Diogenes Patroclos as the Saint had met in Athens: the same heavy figure, the same powerful set to the head and jaw, and the same sallow Greek complexion, the same bushy black brows and musketball eyes. And yet, to the Saint’s acutely perceptive scrutiny, there were minute, infinitesimal differences, which were well-nigh impossible to analyse — perhaps a fractional discrepancy here in the sweep of the hair, or there in a line or two of the face — but which nevertheless added up to just enough of an identifiable distinction to make the Saint feel fairly sure he would now be able to tell Patroclos One and Patroclos Two apart.
    He went straight to Patroclos Two, hand extended.
    “Dio. Good to see you!”
    “Templar! What brings you here at this hour?”
    The voice and handshake were noncommittal; Patroclos Two was not refusing to recognise the Saint, as the girl had done, but neither was he playing it up to the hilt. He was waiting and watching. But Simon marvelled at the double’s achievement with the voice, as much as with the appearance: again the difference from the man in Athens was so slight and elusive that no one would have detected it who was not listening for it — and listening with an ear as acute as the Saint’s.
    “I was just passing,” Simon replied. “There seemed to be a party going on, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I dropped in and said hullo. How was Athens ?”
    “Not good. You know — the political situation.” Patroclos made a seesaw movement in the air with one hand. “Anyhow, you are welcome. You look well.”
    “I hope so. But I was beginning to wonder. Ariadne gave me the cold shoulder just now. She didn’t seem to recognise me at all.”
    Patroclos Two shrugged.
    “Ariadne meets a lot of people … Now, will you have a drink? A cigar?”
    The Saint accepted a Peter Dawson, declined a jumbosize cigar, and settled into a deep leather chair. The Patroclos double watched.
    “What have you been doing with yourself, Templar?” he asked casually. “Since Monte Carlo?”
    And he blew a cloud of heavy cigar smoke into the room. Evidently this copy-Patroclos was in no hurry. For the present he could afford to bide his time, waiting for the Saint to explain his presence. But still the black bullet eyes watched.
    “Oh, I’ve been scouting around — you know, finding a good piece here and there. Nothing very energetic. But as a matter of fact” — here Simon adopted a confidential tone — “and this is actually the reason I wanted to see you, I may have found you another Millefiori.”
    Patroclos Two’s eyebrows swooped in a sharp reaction.
    “Have you really?”
    Simon nodded. He had begun with the idea of getting into the impostor’s house and then playing it by ear from there; and now the imps of devilry were urging him on to see how far he could get this impostor out on a limb.
    “A matching piece to the one I sold you in Monte Carlo,” he said, wondering if