And it left him with nothing but the comfortless certainty that he had no material clues of any kind at all.
He went back into the house, and entered the dining room just as Mrs. Cook was putting a plate of sturdy eggs and crisp aromatic bacon on the table.
"That looks wonderful," he said. "It might even put a spark of life into my dilapidated brain."
It was typical of him that he started on the meal with as much zest as if he had nothing more important than a day's golf on his mind. He knew that he would solve no problems by starving himself; but unlike most men, he found that elementary argument quite sufficient to let him eat with unalloyed enjoyment.
He was halfway through when Madeline Gray came in.
She wore a simple cotton dress that made her look very young and tempting, but her face was pale and her eyes were bright with strain.
"Hullo," he said, so naturally that there might have been nothing else to say. "How did you sleep?"
"Like a log." She stood looking at him awkwardly. "Did you put something in that nightcap?"
"Yes," he said directly. "You'd never have gone to sleep without it."
"I know. It certainly worked. But it's left me an awful head."
"Take an aspirin."
"I have."
"Then you'll feel fine in a few minutes. You should have turned over and gone to sleep again."
"I couldn't."
Mrs. Cook came in from the kitchen and said with excessive cheeriness: "Good morning, Miss Gray. And what would you like for breakfast?"
"I don't feel like anything, thanks."
"You eat something," said the Saint firmly. "There are going to be things to do, and even you can't keep going on air and good intentions. Bring her a nice light omelette, Mrs. Cook. Then I'll hold her mouth open and you can slide it in."
Madeline Gray sat down at the table, and her eyes clung to the Saint with a kind of hopeless tenacity, as if he were the only thing that could hold her mind up to the verge of normality.
"My father didn't come home," she said flatly.
"No." The Saint was deliberately as quiet and impersonal as a doctor reporting on a case. "And you might as well have the rest of it now and get it over with. I called the Algonquin, which is where Mrs. Cook said he always stayed, and he wasn't there last night either."
"He must have stayed with his friend," Mrs. Cook said. "Whoever he went to see. Any minute now he'll be calling up—"
The telephone rang while she was saying it.
Madeline ran.
And in a few moments she was back again, with the light out of her eyes.
"It's for you," she said tonelessly. "From Washington."
Simon went into the living-room.
"Hamilton," said the phone. "I wondered if I'd find you there. About those dossiers you asked for. I happen to have a man flying to New York this afternoon. If you're in a hurry for them, you can meet him there and get them this evening."
"When will he be there?"
"He should get in before five."
"I'll meet him at five o'clock in the men's bar of the Roosevelt."
"All right. He'll find you."
"There are a couple of other things, while you're talking," said the Saint. "You can add a little bit to his luggage. I want one more dossier. On Frank Imberline."
"That's easy. I'm a magician. All I have to do is wave a wand."
"Imberline left for New York and points west this morning — or so he told me. You can check on that. And if he's stopping over in New York, find out where he can be located."
"There aren't any other little jobs you want done, by any chance?"
"Yes. Get me okayed right away with the nearest FBI office to Stamford. I'll find out where it is. I think I'm going to have to talk to them."
"You aren't telling me you've got more on your hands than you can hold?"
"I'm having so much fun being almost legal," said the Saint. "It's a new experience. You'll be hearing from me."
He hung up, and went back to face Madeline Gray's unspoken questions.
He shook his head.
"Just one of those things," he said.
He sat down again; and Mrs. Cook retired reluctantly into the kitchen.
Simon faced the girl across the table. He picked up his knife and fork and made a fresh start on his meal before he said any more.
"Let's get our chins up and take it," he said. "You have got something to worry about. But we're going to try and do things about it. So far, the Ungodly have had practically all the initiative. Now we've got to have some of our own."
"But who are the — the Ungodly? If we only knew—"
That was as much as he needed. He talked, ramblingly and glibly, while he finished his plate, and then through coffee and cigarettes while the girl picked at the omelette that Mrs. Cook brought in to her. He discussed all the dramatis personae again, and an assortment of speculations about them. He said absolutely nothing that was new or worth recording here; but it sounded good at the time. And gradually he saw a trace of color creep into her face, and a shade of expression stir in her occasional replies, as he forced her mind to move and coaxed her with infinite subtlety out of the supine listlessness that had threatened to lock her in a stupor of inert despair. She even ate most of the omelette.
So that an hour later she was smoking a cigarette and listening to him quite actively, while he was saying: "There's one thing you'll notice about this. Every single person we've mentioned has been a good solid citizen with lots of background — except perhaps the quaint little Angert body. There hasn't been one grunt of a gutteral accent, or one hint of the good old Gestapo clumping around in its great big boots. And yet if all these things have been going on, that'd be the first automatic thing to look for. Now if the Awful Aryans have got any—"
He stopped talking at the change in her face. But she was not looking at him. Her eyes were directed past his shoulder, towards the window behind him.
"Simon," she said, "I saw somebody moving out there among the trees, towards the laboratory. And it looked like someone I know."
2
The Saint turned and looked, but he could see nothing now — only a fragment of a roof and a glimpse of white walls between layers of leafy branches.
"A friend of yours?" he said sharply.
"No. It looked like — Karl."
"And who's Karl?"
"He was Daddy's assistant for a while, until we let him go."
"Where did he come from?"
"He was a refugee from somewhere — Czechoslovakia, I think. But he speaks perfect English. He was raised here, and then he went home after he was grown up, but he didn't like it so much so he came back."
"How long ago was this?"
"Oh, about a month ago. I mean when he left… But it's funny, I was thinking about him last night."
The Saint was still watching through the window, but he had seen no movement.
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, it seems silly, but… One of those men who tried to kidnap me last night — the tall one — there was something about his eyes, and the way he carried himself. It reminded me of someone. I couldn't think who it was, and it was bothering me. When I woke up this morning it came to me in a flash. He reminded me of Karl."
"That," said the Saint, "is really interesting."
He turned and glanced at her again. She was still looking past him, half frowning, perplexed and uncertain of herself.
"What was the rest of his name?" he asked.
"Morgen."
Simon put out his cigarette.
"I think," he said, "it might be fun to talk to Comrade Morgen."
She stood up when he did and started to go with him, but he checked her with a hand on her arm.