Free The Saint Meets the Tiger by Leslie Charteris Page A

that he was disappointed at the swift shattering of his lurid hypothesis. “Put the old tootsy into it, haven’t I? What? … I’d better be wobblin’ home. Stammerin’ out his apologies, the wretched young man took his hat, his leave, and his life.”
    She caught his sleeve and pulled him back.
    “Do be sensible,” she begged. “Was your uncle worried?”
    “Nothing ever moves the old boy,” said Algy. “He just takes a swig at the barleywater and says it reminds him of Blitzensfontein or something. Unsympathetic, I call it.
    The girl’s mind could give only a superficial at-tention to Algy’s prattle. She had not known that the noise had been great enough to rouse the neighbourhood, and she wondered how that would affect the Saint’s obscure plans. On the other hand, Bittle would hardly dare go to extremes while she was at large and could testify to some of the events of the evening, and while other people’s curiosity had been aroused by the resultant hullabaloo. Then she remembered that Bittle’s house and Bloem’s stood some distance apart from the others, and it was doubtful whether enough of the din could have been heard outside to attract the notice of Sir Michael Lapping or the two retired CiviI Servants—whose bungalows were the next nearest. But Bloem and Algy knew, and their knowledge might save the Saint.
    Miss Girton, who had been holding aloof for some time, suddenly said:
    “What’s the fuss about, anyhow?”
    “Oh, a noise….” Algy, abashed, was unwont-ediy reticent, and seemed to want nothing more than the early termination of the discussion. He fidgeted, polishing his monocle industriously. “Sir John Bittle kind of giving a rough party, don’t you know.”
    “I think we’ve had quite enough nonsense for one evening,” remarked Agatha Girton. “Everyone’s a bundle of nerves. Is there any need for all this excitement?”
    She herself had lost her usual sangfroid. Under the mask of grim disapproval she was badly shaken —Patricia saw the slight trembling of the big rough hand that held the limp cigarette.
    “Right as per,” agreed Algy weakly. “Sorry, Aunt Agatha.”
    Miss Girton was absurdly pettish.
    “I decline to adopt you as a nephew, Mr. Lomas-Coper.”
    “Sorry, Aunt—Miss Girton. I’ll tool along.”
    Patricia smiled and patted his hand as she said good-bye, but the ordinarily super-effervescent Algy had gone off the boil. He contrived a sickly smile, but he was clearly glad of an excuse to leave the scene of his faux pas.
    ‘ “Come and see us to-morrow,” invited Patricia, and he nodded.
    “Most frightfully sorry, and all that rot,” he said. “I never did have much of a brain, anyway. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, or anything, y’know. What? Cheer-tiddly-ho!”
    He offered a hand to Miss Girton, but she looked down her nose at it and turned away
    “Honk-honk!” said Algy feebly, and departed.
    They heard the front door close with a click, and were impressed with Mr. Lomas-Coper’s humility. Among his more normal habits was that of slamming doors with a mighty bang.
    “You were very hard on Algy,” said Patricia resentfully.
    “I can’t be bothered with the fool,” responded Miss Girton brusquely. “Thank Heavens he swallowed that wild yarn of yours about falling off a cliff. If he’d had any brains, the whole village would have been talking, about you to-morrow. Now, what’s the truth?”
    Patricia looked at her watch again. The time was crawling. Eleven-thirty. She looked upland responded;
    “That yarn’s as good as another.”
    “Not for me.” Agatha Girton came and stood over the girl. She looked very forbidding and masculine at that moment, and Patricia had a fleeting qualm of fear. “What happened at Bittle’s?”
    “Oh, nothing. … He told me that the only way to save you was for me to marry him.”
    “Did he?” said Miss Girton harshly. The swine!”
    “Aunt Agatha!”
    “You make me sick! He is a swine—why