Free Alias the Saint by Leslie Charteris, David Case

bear you no malice. It is simply that my interest in my own safety demands it.”
    Simon smiled.
    “Of course, that’s an important consideration,” he murmured. “But I think you ought to do the thing in style while you’re about it. There’s a tradition in these matters, you know. I’ve never been executed before, and I’d like this to be something I 1can remember. It’s too late for breakfast, and I suppose it’d delay you too much to ask you to let me eat a final dinner, but at least you can give me a couple of bottles of beer.”
    Crantor came up the stairs again, and was visibly relieved when he saw that the Saint was still holding up his hands.
    “Why don’t you send him along down,” Professor?” he demanded. “We haven’t got a lot of time to waste.”
    “The conventions must be observed,*’ said Raxel. “Mr. Smith has asked the privilege of being allowed to consume two bottles of beer, and I shall let him do so. Tope!”
    Basher Tope came shambling out of the bar, and the Professor gave the order. The beer was brought. Simon poured it out himself, and drank the two glasses with relish. Then he picked up the bottles.
    “I’ll take these with me,” he said, “as mementoes. Right away, Professor!”
    Crantor led the way down the stairs, and the Saint followed. Raxel brought up the rear.
    At the foot of the stairs was a short flagged passage, ending in a door. Crantor opened the door and motioned to the Saint to enter. Raxel came up, and the two men stood in the doorway, Crantor lighting up the cellar with his torch.
    It was fairly large, and at one end was a row of barrels. The floor was covered with stqne paving, and the roof was supported by wooden buttresses. But the house was an old one, and Simon had banked everything on the walls not being bricked up, and his hopes went up a couple of miles when he saw that there was nothing but bare earth on three sides of the room.
    He turned with a smile.
    “Good-bye, Professor,” he said.
    “Good-bye,” said Raxel.
    His left hand swung up with the glass globe, and the green liquid it contained caught the light of the torch, and it shone like a monstrous jewel.
    The next instant the bowl had smashed on the floor, and before the light of the torch was taken away Simon saw the green vapor boiling up from the stone.
    Then the door slammed, and the key turned in the lock. The footsteps of Raxel and Crantor could be heard hurrying down the echoing passage and stumbling up the stairs; and Simon Templar, holding his breath, was knocking the bottoms off the bottles he carried, and packing them with earth torn from the walls of the cellar with desperate speed.
    10
    With the first bottle packed with earth, the Saint put the neck in his mouth, and used it to breathe through, closing his nostrils with his fingers. It had been a forlorn hope, but it had been the only thing he had been able to think of; and he remembered having read in a book that such a device formed one of the most efficient possible respirators. It was something to do with molecular velocity—the Saint was no profound scientist, and he did not profess to understand the principle. The main point was whether it would work effectively. He waited, breathing cautiously, while the luminous dial on his wrist watch indicated the passing of ten minutes. At the end of that time he felt no distress other than that caused by the difficulty of squeezing air through the packed earth, and decided that his improvised gas mask was functioning satisfactorily.
    He turned his attention to the door. Hampered as he was by having to take care not to draw a single breath of air which did not pass through his packed bottle, he was not able to fling his whole weight against it, but the efforts he was able to make seemed to produce no impression. He felt all round the door, but the wall in which it was set was the only one which was bricked up. Then he went down on his hands and knees, and tested the stone flags. Two of