They crossed a lawn and mounted some steps to a flagged terrace. Rosemary Chase led them through open french windows into an inoffensively furnished drawing-room, and the butler closed the windows behind him as he followed. Forrest threw himself sulkily into an armchair, but the girl had regained a composure that was just a fraction too detailed to be natural.
"What kind of drinks would you like?" she asked.
"Beer for me," said the Saint, with the same studied urbanity. "Scotch for Hoppy. I'm afraid I should have warned you about him — he tikes to have his own bottle. We're trying to wean him, but it isn't going very well."
The butler bowed and oozed out.
The girl took a cigarette from an antique lacquer box, and Simon stepped forward politely with his lighter. He had an absurd feeling of unreality about this new atmosphere that made it a little difficult to hide his sense of humour, but all his senses were vigilant. She was even lovelier than he had thought at first sight, he admitted to himself as he watched her face over the flame — it was hard to believe that she might be an accomplice to wilful and messy and apparently mercenary murder. But she and Forrest had certainly chosen a very dramatic moment to arrive…
"It's nice of you to have us here," he murmured, "after the way we've behaved."
"My father told me to bring you up," she said. "He seems to be quite an admirer of yours, and he was sure you couldn't have had anything to do with — with the murder."
"I noticed — down in the boathouse — you knew my name," said the Saint thoughtfully.
"Yes — the sergeant used it."
Simon looked at the ceiling.
"Bright lads, these policemen, aren't they? I wonder how he knew?"
"From — your gun licence, I suppose."
Simon nodded.
"Oh, yes. But before that. I mean, I suppose he must have told your father who I was. Nobody else could have done it, could they?"
The girl reddened and lost her voice; but Forrest found his. He jerked himself angrily out of his chair.
"What's the use of all this beating about the bush, Rosemary?" he demanded impatiently. "Why don't you tell him we know all about that letter that Nora wrote him?"
The door opened, and the butler came back with a tray of bottles and glasses and toured the room with them. There was a strained silence until he had gone again. Hoppy Uniatz stared at the newly opened bottle of whisky which had been put down in front of him, with a rapt and menacing expression which indicated that his grey matter was in the throes of another paroxysm of Thought.
Simon raised his glass and gazed appreciatively at the sparkling brown clearness within it.
"All right," he said. "If you want it that way. So you knew Nora Prescott had written to me. You came to the Bell to see what happened. Probably you watched through the windows first; then when she went out, you came in to watch me. You followed one of us to the boathouse—"
"And we ought to have told the police—"
"Of course." The Saint's voice was mild and friendly. "You ought to have told them about the letter. I'm sure you could have quoted what was in it. Something about how she was being forced to help in putting over a gigantic fraud, and how she wanted me to help her. Sergeant Jesser would have been wild with excitement about that. Naturally, he'd 've seen at once that that provided an obvious motive for me to murder her, and none at all for the guy whose fraud was going to be given away. It really was pretty noble of you both to take so much trouble to keep me out of suspicion, and I appreciate it a lot. And now that we're all pals together, and there aren't any policemen in the audience, why don't you save me a lot of headaches and tell me what the swindle is?"
The girl stared at him.
"Do you know what you're saying?"
"I usually have a rough idea," said the Saint coolly and deliberately. "I'll make it even plainer, if that's too subtle for you. Your father's a millionaire, they tell me. And when there are any gigantic frauds in the wind, I never expect to find the big shot sitting in a garret toasting kippers over a candle."
Forrest started towards him.
"Look here, Templar, we've stood about enough from you—"
"And I've stood plenty from you," said the Saint, without moving. "Let's call it quits. We were both misunderstanding each other at the beginning, but we don't have to go on doing it. I can't do anything for you if you don't put your cards on the table. Let's straighten it out now. Which of you two cooled off Nora Prescott?"
He didn't seem to change his voice, but the question came with a sharp stinging clarity like the flick of a whip. Rosemary Chase and the young man gaped at him frozenly, and he waited for an answer without a shift of his lazily negligent eyes. But he didn't get it.
The rattle of the doorhandle made everyone turn, almost in relief at the interruption. A tall cadaverous man, severely dressed in a dark suit and high old-fashioned collar, his chin bordered with a rim of black beard, pince-nez on a loop of black ribbon in his hand, came into the room and paused hesitantly.
Rosemary Chase came slowly out of her trance.
"Oh, Dr Quintus," she said in a quiet forced voice. "This is Mr Templar and — er—"
"Hoppy Uniatz," Simon supplied.
Dr Quintus bowed; and his black sunken eyes clung for a moment to the Saint's face.
"Delighted," he said in a deep burring bass; and turned back to the girl. "Miss Chase, I'm afraid the shock has upset your father a little. Nothing at all serious, I assure you, but I think it would be unwise for him to have any more excitement just yet. However, he asked me to invite Mr Templar to stay for dinner. Perhaps later…"
Simon took another sip at his beer, and his glance swung idly over to the girl with the first glint of a frosty sparkle in its depths.
"We'd be delighted," he said deprecatingly. "If Miss Chase doesn't object—"
"Why, of course not." Her voice was only the minutest shred of a decibel out of key. "We'd love to have you stay."
The Saint smiled his courteous acceptance, ignoring the wrathful half movement that made Forrest's attitude rudely obvious. He would have stayed anyway, whoever had objected. It was just dawning on him that out of the whole fishy set-up, Marvin Chase was the one man he had still to meet.
VI
"Boss," said Mr Uniatz, rising to his feet with an air of firm decision, "should I go to de terlet?"
It was not possible for, Simon to pretend that he didn't know him; nor could he take refuge in temporary deafness.
Mr Uniatz's penetrating accents were too peremptory for that to have been convincing. Simon swallowed, and took hold of himself with the strength of despair.
"I don't know, Hoppy," he said bravely. "How do you feel?"
"I feel fine, boss. I just t'ought it might be a good place."
"It might be," Simon conceded feverishly.
"Dat was a swell idea of yours, boss," said Mr Uniatz, hitching up his bottle.