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."For a moment Kelly was silent and perplexed before the Saint's suddenseriousness; then he shrugged, and laughed, and took Simon Templar's hand in ahuge grip."I don't confess to know what yez are talkin' about," he said."And I don'tcare.I suppose it's been worth it-if only to see the look on DeÿVillega'sugly face whin yez sent him to prison.And, anyway, a laughin' devil who canrun a show like yez have run this one deserves to be allowed to work thingshis own way.""Good scout!" smiled the Saint."Was Mrs.Kelly all right?"Page 92 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"A bit scared, but no harm done.It was Lilla she was afraid for.They justtied the missus up in a chair and left her.An' that reminds me-there was acable waitin' for me up at the bungalow, and I can't make head or tale of it.Maybe it's something to do with you."Kelly rumbled in his pocket and produced the form.The Saint took it over, andone glance told him that it was meant for him."It's from an agent of mine in London," he explained."He wouldn't haveaddressed it to Archie or me in case anything had gone wrong and it wasintercepted."He knew the code almost perfectly, and he was able to write the translation inbetween the lines at once.Pops down trumped twelve thousand.The Saint wrote:P.O.P.'s fell heavily.Cleared twelve thousand pounds.Campard committedsuicide this morning.It was signed with the name of Roger Conway."Archie!" called the Saint, thoughtfully; and again: "Archie!""They sneaked out minutes ago," said Kelly."She's a sweet girl, that LillaMcAndrew."And it was so, until evening.And at even the Saint went forth and made a tour of a number of disreputablecafes, in each of which he bought much liquor for the clientele.They did notrecognize him until he started to sing-a strange and barbarous song that noone could understand.But they recognized it, having heard it sung before,with many others like it, by a certain pe¢n:"The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,For you but not for me; For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,They've got the goods for me, O death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,Where, grave, thy victory."To this day you will hear that song sung by the peasants of Santa Miranda.Andif you should ask one of them why he sings it, he will answer, with courteoussurprise at your ignorance: "That, se¤or, is one of the songs of freedom."THE MAN WHO COULD NOT DIEPatricia Holm raised her fair, pretty head from the Times."What," she asked, "is an obiter dictum?""A form of foot-and-mouth disease," said the Saint, glibly."Obiter-one whoobits; dictum-a shirt-front.Latin.Very difficult.""Fool," said his lady.The Saint grinned, and pushed back his chair.Breakfast was over; a blaze ofPage 93 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlsummer sunshine was pouring through the open windows into the comfortableroom; the first and best cigarette of the day was canted up between theSaint's smiling lips; all was right with the world."What's the absorbing news, anyway?" he inquired lazily.She passed him the paper; and, as is the way of these things, the matter whichhad given rise to her question was of the most ephemeral interest-and yet itinterested the Saint.Simon Templar had always been the despair of all thoseof his friends who expected him to produce intelligent comments upon theaffairs of the day; to read a newspaper not only bored him to extinction, butoften gave him an actual physical pain.Therefore it followed, quitenaturally, that when the mood seized him to glance at a newspaper, he usuallymanaged to extract more meat from that one glance than the earnest regularstudent of the press extracts from years of daily labour.It so happened that morning.Coincidence, of course; but how much adventure isfree from all taint of coincidence? Coincidences are always coinciding-it isone of their peculiar attributes; but the adventure is born of what the manmakes of his coincidences.Most people say: "How odd!"Simon Templar said: "Well, well, well!"But the Times really hadn't anything exciting to say that morning; andcertainly the column that Patricia had been reading was one of the most soberof all the columns of that very respectable newspaper, for it was one of thecolumns in which such hardy annuals as Paterfamilias, Lieut-Colonel (retired),Pro Bono Publico, Mother of Ten, unto the third and fourth generation, Abrahamand his seed forever, let loose their weary bleats upon the world.Thegentleman ("Diehard") who had incorporated an obiter dictum in his effort wasgiving tongue on the subject of motorists.It was, as has been explained, purecoincidence that he should have written with special reference to a recentprosecution for dangerous driving in which the defendant had been a man inwhom the Saint had the dim beginnings of an interest."Aha!" said the Saint, thoughtful like."Haven't you met that man-Miles Hallin?" Patricia said."I've heard youmention his name.""And that's all I've met up to date," answered the Saint."But I have met abird who talks about nothing else but Miles.Although I suppose, in thecircumstances, that isn't as eccentric as it sounds."He had, as a matter of fact, met Nigel Perry only a fortnight before, by aslightly roundabout route.Simon Templar, being in a club in Piccadilly whichfor some unknown reason al lowed him to continue his membership, haddiscovered that he was without a handkerchief.His need being vital, he hadstrolled over to a convenient shop-without troubling to put on a hat.The restof the story, he insisted, was Moyna Stanford's fault.Simon had bought hishandkerchief, and the shop assistant had departed towards the cashier with theSaint's simoleons, when Moyna Stanford walked in, walked straight up to theSaint, and asked if he could show her some ties
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