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

smiled.
    “True, O King. But you’re quite as strange a specimen as ever went into the Old Bailey. For a retired grocer, your command of the Oxford language is astonishing.”
    Bittle did not answer, and the Saint gazed genially around and seemed almost surprised to see Patricia standing a little behind him. The girl had not known what to make of most of the conversation, but she had recovered from her immediate fear. There was a large assurance about everything the Saint did and said which inspired her with uncomprehending courage—even as it inspired Bittle with uncomprehending anxiety.
    “Hope we haven’t bored you,” murmured Simon solicitously. “Would you like to go home?”
    She nodded, and Templar looked at the millionaire.
    “She would like to go home,” Templar said in his most winning voice.
    A thin smile touched Bittle’s mouth.
    “Just when we’re getting matey?” he queried.
    “I’m sure Miss Holm didn’t mean to offend you,” protested Simon. He looked at the girl, who stared blankly at him, and turned to Bittle with an air of engaging frankness. “You see? It’s only that she’s rather tired.”
    Bittle turned over the cigars in a box on a side table near the Saint, selected one, amputated the tip, and lighted it with the loving precision of a connoisseur. Then he faced Templar blandly.
    “That happens to be just what I can’t allow at the moment,” said Bittle in an apologetic tone. “You see, we have some business to discuss.”
    “I guess it’ll keep,” said the Saint gently.
    “I don’t think so,” said Bittle.
    Templar regarded the other thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then, with a shrug, he jerked the millionaire’s automatic from his pocket and walked to the French windows. He opened one of them a couple of inches, holding it with his foot, and signed to the girl to follow him. With her beside him, he said:
    “Then it looks, Bittle, as if you’ll spend to-morrow morning burying a number of valuable dogs.”
    “I don’t think so,” said Bittle.
    There was a quiet significance in the way he said it that brought the Saint round again on the alert.
    “Go hon!” mocked Simon watchfully.
    Bittle stood with his head thrown back and his eyes half closed, as though listening. Then he said:
    “You see, Mr. Templar, if you look in the cigar box you will find that the bottom sinks back a trifle under quite a light pressure. In fact, it acts as a bell push. There are now three men in the garden as well as four bloodhounds, and two more in the passage outside this room. And the only dog I can imagine myself burying to-morrow morning is an insolent young puppy, who’s chosen to poke his nose into my business.”
    “Well, well, well,” said the Saint, his hands in his pockets. “Well, well, WELL!”
    Sir John Bittle settled himself comfortably in his armchair, pulled an ash stand to a convenient position, and continued the leisurely smoking of his cigar. The Saint, looking at him in a softly speculative fashion, had to admire the man’s nerve. The Saint smiled; and then Patricia’s hand on his arm brought him back with a jerk to the stern realities of the situation. He took the hand in his, pressed it, and turned the saintly smile on her in encouragement. Then he was weighing Bittle’s automatic in a steady hand.
    “Carrying on the little game of Let’s Pretend,” suggested Simon, “let’s suppose that I sort of pointed this gun at you, all nervous and upset, and in my agitation I kind of twiddled the wrong knob. I mean, suppose it went off, and you were in the way? Wouldn’t it be awkward!”
    Bittle shook his head.
    “Terribly,” he agreed. “And you’re such a mystery to Baycombe already that I’m afraid they’d talk. You know how unkind gossip can be. Why, they’d be quite capable of saying you did it on purpose.”
    “There’s something in that,” said Templar mildly, and he put the gun back in his pocket. “Then suppose I took my little knife and began