Saint Intervenes by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

coat. His keen spectacled
eyes examined the financier calmly. Mr. Oates mustered all his
self-control.
    “I am
Titus Oates,” he said with simple dignity.
    The
grey-bearded man nodded.
    “You
wanted to see me?” he said; and Mr. Oates recalled his instructions again.
    “Titus
Oates,” he repeated gravely. “I was whipped from Aldgate to
Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn.”
    Dr.
Jethero studied him for a moment longer, and glanced towards the door,
where the white-coated attendant was waiting unobtrusively—Mr. Oates had not
even noticed the oddity of that.
    “Yes,
yes,” he said soothingly. “And you were pilloried in Palace Yard, weren’t you?”
    “That’s
right,” said Mr. Oates eagerly. “And outside the Royal Exchange. They
put me in prison for life, but they let me out at the
Revolution and gave me my pension back.”
    Dr.
Jethero made clucking noises with his tongue.
    “I
see. A very unfortunate business. Would you mind com ing this way, Mr.
Oates?”
    He led the
way up the stairs, and Mr. Oates followed him blissfully. The whole
rigmarole seemed very childish, but if it pleased Dr. Jethero, Mr. Oates was
prepared to go to any lengths to humour him. The white-coated attendant
followed Mr. Oates. Dr. Jethero opened the
door of a room on the second floor,
and stood aside for Mr. Oates to pass in. The door had a barred grille in its upper panels through which the interior of the room could be observed from the
outside, an eccentricity which Mr. Oates was still ready to accept as
being in keeping with the character of his host.
    It was the
interior of the room into which he was shown that began to place
an excessive strain on his adaptability. It was without
furnishings of any kind, unless the thick kind of mattress in one corner
could be called furnishings, and the walls and floor were finished in some
extraordinary style of decoration which made them look like quilted
upholstery.
    Mr. Oates
looked about him, and turned puzzledly to his host.
    “Well,”
he said, “where’s the stamp?”
    “What
stamp?” asked Dr. Jethero.
    Mr.
Oates’s laboriously achieved restraint was wearing thin again.
    “Don’t
you understand? I’m Titus Oates. I was whipped from Aldgate to
Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
    “Yes,
yes, yes,” murmured the doctor peaceably. “You’re Titus
Oates. You stood in the pillory and they pelted you with rotten
eggs.”
    “Well,”
said Mr. Oates, “what about the stamp?”
    Dr. Jethero
cleared his throat.
    “Just
a minute, Mr. Oates. Suppose we go into that pres ently. Would you mind
taking off your coat and shoes?”
    Mr. Oates
gaped at him.
    “This
is going too far,” he protested. “I’m Titus Oates. Everybody
know Titus Oates. You remember—the Popish Plot—— ”
    “Mr.
Oates,” said the doctor sternly, “will you take off your coat
and shoes?”
    The
white-coated attendant was advancing stealthily to wards him, and a
sudden vague fear seized on the financier. Now he began to see
the reason for the man’s extraordinary behaviour. He was not
crotchety. He was potty. He was worse—he must be a raving homicidal lunatic.
Heaven knew what he would be doing next. A wild desire to be away from
number 105 Matlock Gardens gripped Mr. Oates—a desire that could not
even be quelled by the urge to possess a twopenny blue
Mauritius in perfect preservation.
    “Never
mind,” said Mr. Oates liberally. “I’m not really interested.
I don’t collect stamps at all. I’m just Titus Oates. Everyone knows me.
I’m sure you’ll excuse me—I have an appointment—— ”
    He was
edging towards the door, but Dr. Jethero stood in the way.
    “Nobody’s
going to hurt you, Mr. Oates,” he said; and then he caught the
desperate gleam in Mr. Oates’s eye, and signed quickly to the
attendant.
    Mr. Oates
was seized suddenly from behind in a deft grip. Overcome with terror,
he struggled like a maniac, and he was a big man; but he