Free The Saint Meets His Match by Leslie Charteris Page A

outer houses.
    He rarely stirred out of
doors except on business, pre ferring to sleep and drink and smoke at home,
and amuse himself with his own inscrutable
and animal meditations. He was at home when Jill Trelawney and Stephen Weald
arrived, and went down to open the door to them himself when he recognized the
signal on the bell which showed that the visitors were friendly.            
    “Good-afternoon, Miss
Trelawney,” he said politely, for Harry Donnell
prided himself on his accomplishments as a ladies’ man. Her manner, however,
cut short any courtesies.
    “The Saint’s after
you,” she said bluntly. “Where can we
talk?”
    He looked at her, and then
led the way upstairs with out a word.
    They went up two flights
of dingy, creaking stairs, for the first and ground
floors were devoted to the sleeping accommodations of
his gang. On the second floor he opened a door and showed
them into a big, bare room, of which the principal articles of furniture
appeared to consist of a rough deal table
and a case of whisky. This room, like
most of the others in the house, was lighted only by a small and dirty window which admitted hardly any light, and the gloom was made gloomier by the
fog of stale tobacco smoke which
hung in the air.
    Donnell closed the door
behind them.
    “Did you say the
Saint?”
    “I did. Do you know him?”
    Donnell drew back his lips from a row of black
and broken teeth.
    “I met
him—once.”
    “You look like meeting
him again,” said the girl shortly.
    Donnell was not
immediately impressed. He took a pipe from his pocket and
began to fill it from a tin on the table.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’s after you for
that show at Essenden’s. He came and told me that he was going to take you
himself. We shut him up in the cellar and came to
warn you ourselves. But he got away somehow and caught the
same train as we did. Weald saw him. We didn’t see him again at the other end, but he can’t be far behind. In fact, I
know how far behind he is. He knows
I’m coming here and he’s hanging just
far enough behind to get me into the trap as well. He’s after me, too.”
    Donnell looked from her to Weald.
    “Is this a
joke?” he demanded.
    And Weald’s face told him
it was not a joke. He turned to the girl again.
    “Why didn’t you get
me on the telephone?” he asked harshly. “Isn’t
that what it’s here for?”
    “The exchange told me that the trunk line
was out of order,” said Jill quietly.
“And don’t talk to me like that. I
don’t like it.”
    Donnell faced her cold
gaze three seconds and then dropped his eyes.
    “No offense,” he
muttered.
    “Forget it,”
said the girl briskly. “We’ve got about three or
four minutes, I should say, before Templar turns up. I’d
like him to have a welcome. He’ll be alone—I’m cer tain
of that. What can you do about it?”
    “There are half a dozen of the boys
downstairs.”
    “Can you stop him getting in?”
    Donnell grinned.
    “I could stop an
army,” he bragged.
    “Can you stop the
Saint?”
    “Haven’t you seen round this house?”
asked Donnell. “I’ve had it ready for
years, just for something like this. I’ll
take you round, if you like, and you can see for yourself.”
    Jill tightened the belt of
her coat.
    “I’ll look round on
my own, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I know what to look for, and
it probably isn’t what you’d show me. Give Weald a drink while I’m gone—I guess he needs it.”
    She went out, and Donnell
picked up a bottle and a glass. He poured out four
good fingers of the spirit, and Weald grabbed it and drank
it neat. Then he turned to Donnell; the fire-water
had steadied him up a bit—in a way.
    “You believe it
isn’t a joke?” he said.
    Donnell nodded.     
    “Yes, I believe it
now.”
    “I’m up against
it,” panted Weald flabbily. “I’m up against
it much more than you are. They can only get you for a bashing, but they
can get me for a lot