The Saint Meets the Tiger by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online

gentleman. Gentlemen are such snobs. All the gentlemen around here, for instance, refuse to know you—at least, that’s what I’m told—but I don’t mind it in the least. I hope we shall get on excellently together, and that this meeting will be but the prelude to a long and enjoyable acquaintance, to mutual satisfaction and profit. Yours faithfully.”
    “You leave me very little choice, Mr. Templar,” said Bittle, and touched the bell.
    The Saint remained where he was, still smiling, until there was a knock on the door and a butler who looked like a retired prize fighter came in.
    “Show Mr. Templar the door,” said Bittle.
    “But how hospitable!” exclaimed the Saint, and then, to the surprise of everyone, he walked coolly across the room and followed the butler into the passage.
    The millionaire stood by the table, almost gaping with astonishment at the ease with which he had broken down such an apparently impregnable defence.
    “I know these bluffers,” he remarked with ill-concealed relief,
    His satisfaction was of very short duration, for the end of his little speech coincided with the sounds of a slight scuffle outside and the slamming of a door. While Bittle stared, the Saint walked in again through the window, and his cheery “Well, well, well brought the millionaire’s head round with a jerk as the door burst open and the butler returned.
    “Nice door,” murmured the Saint.
    He was breathing a little faster, but not a hair of his sleek head was out of place. The pugilistic butler, on the other hand, was not a little dishevelled, and appeared to have just finished banging his nose on to something hard. The butler had a trickle of blood running down from his nostrils to his mouth, and the look in his eyes was not one of peace on earth or goodwill toward men.
    “Home again,” drawled the Saint. “This is a peach of a round game, what?—as dear Algy would say. Now can I see the offices? House agents always end up their advertisements by saying that their desirable property is equipped with the usual offices, but I’ve never seen one of the same yet.”
    “Let me attim,” uttered the butler, shifting round the table.
    The Saint smiled, his hands in his pockets.
    “You try to drop-kick me down the front steps, and you get welted on the boko,” said Simon speculatively, adapting style to audience. “Now you want to whang into my prow—and I wonder where you get blipped this time?”
    Bittle stepped between the two men, and in one comprehensive glance summed up their prospects in a rough-house. Then he looked at the butler and motioned toward the door.
    The ex-pug went out reluctantly, muttering profane and offensive things, and the millionaire faced round again.
    “Suppose you explain yourself?”
    “Just suppose!” agreed Templar enthusiasticalty. Bittle glowered.
    “Well, Mr. Templar?”
    “Quite, thanks. How’s yourself?”
    “Need you waste time playing the fool?” demanded Bittle shortly.
    “Now I come to think of it— no,” answered the Saint amiably. “But granny always said I was a terrible tease… Well, sonny, taken all round I don’t think your hospitality comes up to standard; and that being so I’ll see Miss Holm back to the old roof tree. S’long.”
    And he took Patricia’s arm and led her towards the French window, while Bittle stood watching them in silence, completely nonplussed. It was just as he seemed about to pass out of the house without further parley that the Saint stopped and turned, as though struck by a minor afterthought.
    “By the way, Bittle,” he said, “I was forgetting— you were going to pass over a few documents, weren’t you?”
    Bittle did not answer, and the Saint added:
    “All about your side line in usury. Hand over the stuff and I’ll write you a check now for the full amount.”
    “I refuse,” snapped the millionaire.
    “Please yourself,” said the Saint. “My knowledge of Law is pretty scrappy, but I don’t think you can do