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he was overreaching himself. “You have still got it, I hope?”
    Patroclos Two hesitated for a moment, and then the hint of a crafty smile crossed his features as he beckoned the Saint over to one of the glass-cabinets.
    “See for yourself.” He indicated the cabinet.
    “Ah, yes…” Simon began, seeing no easy way out of the trap that he himself had set; and Patroclos Two’s voice cut in suddenly.
    “Which one?”
    Simon made a last attempt to carry it off.
    “I’m hardly likely to forget!” he laughed.
    “Which one?” repeated Patroclos, watching him, hawklike.
    With an air of supreme confidence, the Saint pointed.
    “That one.”
    Patroclos Two nodded thoughtfully, as if to say that matters stood much as he had expected, and he moved back to sit behind the desk again.
    ” I am glad to see that you have done some homework, Templar. But… not… quite … enough. That piece came from the Andersen collection. I bought it in Copenhagen two years ago.”
    “Well, I never,” said the Saint, scratching his head. “You know, Dio, I could have sworn …”
    “Enough games!” The voice cut across the room like a whiplash. “We have never met before, and you never sold me anything. Now what do you want?”
    And the Saint knew that the masks were off. The bluff had failed.
    “You should be able to guess what I want,” he said in a level voice.
    Patroclos Two regarded him scowlingly from under the bushy black brows.
    “You think I might make a deal with you, is that it?”
    “Possibly,” said the Saint slowly. “It might just save your bacon.”
    The double eyed him impassively for a few moments.
    “Sit down, Templar,” he invited.
    Simon sat down again in the leather chair; and the dancing blue eyes under his quizzically tilted brows looked more innocent than ever.
    “When Ariadne says you are here,” Patroclos Two began, “I say to myself, what is the famous, the notorious Saint doing in my house ? It was very puzzling to me. At first.”
    “At first?” queried the Saint.
    “My dear Templar.” Patroclos Two beamed. “It is very clear. You have heard that I am being impersonated. It has been kept out of the newspapers, yes — but you have your own contacts, your own sources of information — perhaps even in Scotland Yard. So — you know about this masquerader. As an adventurer, naturally you are intrigued. And you resolve to investigate on my behalf!”
    If Simon Templar’s self-control had been less than impeccable, his jaw would undoubtedly have dropped as soon as he realised the trend of Patroclos Two’s words. But long training had equipped the Saint for an automatic, reflex kind of facial dissemblance which operated in almost any circumstances as the need arose. His jaw therefore on this occasion maintained an unperturbed outline, although beneath the surface air of conversational attention he was gripped by an amazement of such stupendous proportions that it could have sent a hundred jaws plummeting to the centre of the earth.
    “You’re very shrewd,” he said slowly.
    “So you confirm it. That you are here to investigate this impostor?”
    “I can’t deny it,” replied the Saint with a faint smile.
    “Then it would be ungrateful of me not to accept such an offer. What fee would you ask to find this so-called double and put a stop to his interference in my affairs?”
    “Twenty thousand pounds,” replied the Saint with a perfectly straight face; and Patroclos Two stood up at once and held out his hand.
    “Templar — you’re hired.”
    6
It was, Simon Templar considered, a situation worthy of inclusion in a cosmic museum of mind-bogglers.
    There existed on this earth, indubitably, a billionaire of highly flexible ethics but fabulous efficiency, named Diogenes Patroclos. He was, apparently, being impersonated with incredible brilliance by an identical double, to the point where his globe-girdling empire was in danger of being smoothly and completely taken over by this perfect