"How much shall we make if we buy and sell with him?" asked the girl.
The Saint smiled.
"I'm afraid we should lose a lot of money," he said. "You see, Titus isn't going to sell."
She stared at him, mystified; and he closed the menu and laughed at her silently.
"Did you by any chance hear Titus boasting about a stamp he bought for his collection last night?" he asked, and she nodded. "Well, old darling, I'm the bird who sold it to him. I never thought I should sink to philatelism even in my dotage, but in this case it seemed the best way to work. Titus is already convinced that I'm the greatest stamp-sleuth in captivity, and when he hears about the twopenny blue Mauritius I've discovered for him he will be fairly purring through the town. I don't see any reason why our Mr. Oates should go unpunished for his sins and make a fortune out of this low swindle. He collects stamps, but I've got an even better hobby. I collect queer friends." The Saint was lighting a cigarette, and his blue eyes danced over the match. "Now listen carefully while I tell you the next move."
Mr. Wallington Titus Oates was gloating fruitily over the closing prices on the Friday evening when his telephone bell rang.
He had reason to gloat. The news story provided by the cablegrams of Mr. Ischolskov had been so admirably worded that it had hit the front page of every afternoon edition the previous day; and a jumpy market had done the rest. The results exceeded his most optimistic estimates. On the Wednesday night Midorients had closed at 32, and dealings in the street had taken them up to 34. They opened on Thursday morning at 38, and went to 50 before noon. One lunch edition ran a special topical article on fortunes made in oil, the sun shone brilliantly, England declared for 537 for six wickets in the first Test, all the brokers and jobbers felt happy, and Midorients finally went to 61 at the close. Moreover, in the evening paper which Mr. Oates was reading there could not be found a breath of suspicion directed against the news which had caused the boom. The Midorient directors had issued a statement declaring that they were awaiting further details, that their manager on the spot was a reliable man not given to hysterical exaggerations, and that for the moment they were satisfied that prosperity had returned to an oil field which, they pointed out, had merely been suffering a temporary set-back. Mr. Gates had had much to do with the wording of the statement himself; and if it erred somewhat on the side of optimism, the error could not by any stretch of imagination have been described as criminal misrepresentation.
And when Mr. Oates picked up his receiver and heard what it had to say, his cup was filled to overflowing.
"I've got you that twopenny blue," sad a voice which he recognised. "It's a peach! It must be one of the most perfect specimens in existence — and it'll only cost you nine hundred quid."
Mr. Oates gripped the receiver, and his eyes lighted up with the unearthly fire which illumines the stare of the collector when he sees a coveted trophy within his grasp. It was, in its way, a no less starkly primitive manifestation than the dilating nostrils of a bloodhound hot on the scent.
"Where is it?" barked Mr. Oates, in the baying voice of the same hound. "When can I see it? Can you bring it round? Have you got it yourself? Where is it?
"Well, that's the snag, Mr. Oates," said the Saint apologetically. "The owner won't let it go. He won't even let it out of his safe until it's paid for. He says he's got to have a cheque in his pocket before he'll let me take it away. He's a crotchety old bird, and I think he's afraid I might light a cigarette with it or something."
Mr. Oates fairly quivered with suppressed emotion.
"Well, where does he live?" he yelped. "I'll settle him. I'll go round and see him at once. What's his name? What's the address?"
"His name is Dr. Jethero," Simon answered methodically, "and he lives at 105 Matlock Gardens, Netting Hill. I think you'll catch him there — I've only just left him, and he said nothing about going out."
"Dr. Jethero — 105 — Matlock — Gardens — Notting — Hill," repeated Mr. Oates, reaching for a message pad and scribbling frantically.
"By the way," said the Saint, "I said he was crotchety, but you may think he's just potty. He's got some sort of a bee in his bonnet about people trying to get in and steal his stamp, and he told me that if you want to call and see him you've got to give a password."
"A password?" bleated Mr. Oates.
"Yes. I told him that everybody knew Titus Oates, but apparently that wasn't good enough for him. If you go there you've got to say 'I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate and from Newgate to Tyburn.' Can you remember that?"
"Of course," said Mr. Oates indignantly. "I know all about that. Titus Oates was an ancestor of mine. Come and see me in the morning, my dear boy — I'll have a present waiting for you. Good-bye."
Mr. Oates slammed back the receiver and leapt up as if unleashed. Dithering with ecstasy and excitement, he stuffed his note of the address into his pocket, grabbed a cheque-book, and dashed out into the night.
The taxi ride to his destination seemed interminable, and when he got there he was in such a state of expectant rapture that he flung the driver a pound note and scurried up the steps without waiting for change. The house was one of those unwieldly Victorian edifices with which the west of London is encumbered against all hopes of modern development; and in the dim street lighting he did not notice that all the windows were barred, nor would he have been likely to speculate upon the reasons for that peculiar feature if he had noticed it.
The door was opened by a white-coated man, and Mr. Oates almost bowled him over as he dashed past him into the hall.
"I want Dr. Jethero," he bayed. "I'm Titus Oates!"
The man closed the door and looked at him curiously.
"Mr. Titus Oates, sir?"
"Yes!" roared the financier impatiently. "Titus Oates. Tell him I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. And hurry up!"
The man nodded perfunctorily, and edged past him at a cautious distance of which Mr. Oates was too wrought up to see the implications.
"Yes, sir. Will you wait in here a moment, sir?"
Mr. Oates was ushered into a barely furnished distempered room and left there. With an effort he fussed himself down to a superficial calm — he was Titus Oates, a power in the City, and he must conduct himself accordingly. Dr. Jethero might misunderstand a blundering excitement. If he was crotchety, and perhaps even potty, he must be handled with tact. Mr. Oates strode up and down the room, working off his overflow of excitement. There was a faint characteristic flavour of iodoform in the air, but Mr. Oates did not even notice that.
Footsteps sounded along the hall, and the door opened again. This time it admitted a grey-bearded man who also wore a white 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 coming 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.