Free The Saint Meets the Tiger by Leslie Charteris Page B

shouldn’t I say so? And with an adjective, if I choose. Why didn’t you tell him so yourself? What did you say?”
    “I—” Patricia pulled herself up. The Saint’s volcanic arrival had ended the discussion somewhat abruptly. “I didn’t know what to say,” answered Patricia truthfully.
    Miss Girton glowered down at the girl.
    “And then he got fresh?”
    “Not—not exactly. You see—”
    “Then who did?”
    Patricia covered her eyes.
    “Oh, leave me alone! Tell me how you got into his debt.”
    “There’s nothing much to tell,” replied Agatha Girton coldly. “When Bittle first came, and was trying to get into Baycombe society, nobody returned his calls. Then he called on me and insisted on seeing me—I suppose because he thought the Manor had the most influence. He knew I was hard up—I don’t know how—and if I helped him he’d help me. It was my only way out. I agreed. You know he’s been here several times, but even then I couldn’t make anyone else take him up, although he didn’t seem at all uneducated and behaved perfectly. They’re all snobs here…. I had to go on borrowing from him, and he didn’t seem to mind, though he wasn’t getting much return for it. That’s all there is to it.”
    Patricia bit her lip.
    “I see. And even though you were using my money you didn’t condescend to tell me anything about it.”
    “What good would that have done?”
    “Wasn’t there anything—”
    “Nothing whatever,” said Miss Girton flatly.
    Patricia looked at her.
    “Then might I ask what you propose to do you’ve come to the end of your resources?”
    Agatha Girton started another cigarette, and her hands were a little more unsteady. For a moment she failed to meet the girl’s eye, and stared foxedly out of the window. Then she looked at Patricia again.
    “You must leave that to me,” said Miss Girton, in a low inhuman voice that sent an involuntary tingle of dread crawling up Patricia’s spine.
    The girl rose and walked to another part of the room, to get away from the dull frightening eyes of Agatha Girton. At any other time she would have known better how to deal with the revelation that had been made to her, but now all her thoughts were with the Saint, and she could not concentrate on this new problem—and, if she had been able to, she would not have dared to tackle it, for fear of creating a situation which might prevent her carrying out his instructions if he failed to put in an appearance at the appointed time. Miss Girton was as strong as an ordinary man, and her temper that night was not to be trusted.
    Fifteen minutes still to go–three-quarters of an hour since she left the Saint in the garden,
    “What’s the matter with you, child?” Agatha Girton’s rasping voice demanded sharply. “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”
    “To see the time.”
    She felt an absurd desire to smile. The retort would have tickled the Saint to death—she could visualize his impish delight—but Agatha Girton was less easily satisfied.
    “Why should you bother about the time?”
    “I’m not going to be badgered like this!” flamed Patricia-unexpectedly.
    Her patience had worn very thin during the last quarter of an hour, and she knew that her anxiety was desperately near to driving her into indiscreet anger or a flood of tears for relief. She faced Miss Girton mutinously.
    “I’ll see you to-morrow,” she said, and left the room without another word.
    She went up to her bedroom and paced up and down restlessly. Leaning out of the wide-open window, she could hear nothing from the direction of Bittle’s house. Looking the other way, she could see the black shape of Carn’s cottage. There was a light in one downstairs window: apparently the doctor had not yet retired. She thought of going round and chatting to him until the time had run out, for if all was well and the Saint arrived and found her out he would be sure to try Carn first for news of her. For a little while