It did not happen at once. The stare had focused on its object for some time before that cold draught of perplexedly dawning comprehension began to lap Mossiter's spinal column. But the Saint read all that he wanted to read in the sudden darkening of the livid scar that ran down the side of Mossiter's face from his left temple to his chin; and the Saintly smile became dazzlingly seraphic.

"Exactly," said the Saint.

His gaze shifted over to the girl. Her hand was still round her glass-she had been raising it when the Saint reached the table, and had put it down again untasted.

Still smiling, Simon took the girl's glass in one hand and Mossiter's in the other, and changed them over. Then he looked again at Mossiter.

"Drink up," he said, and suddenly there was cold steel in his voice.

What d'you mean?"

"Drink," said the Saint. "Open your mouth, and induce the liquid to trickle down the gullet. You must have done it before. But whether you'll enjoy it so much on this occasion remains to be seen,"

"What the hell are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. That's just your guilty conscience. Drink it up, Beautiful."

Mossiter seemed to crouch in his chair.

"Will you leave this table?" he grated.

"No," said the Saint.

"Then you will have to leave the club altogether. . . . Waiter!"

The Saint took out his cigarette case and tapped a cigarette meditatively upon it. Then he looked up. He addressed the girl.

"If you had finished that drink," he said, "the consequences would have been very unpleasant indeed. I think I can assure you of that, though I'm not absolutely certain what our friend put in it. It is quite sufficient that I saw him drop something into your glass while he was talking just now." He leaned back in his chair, with his back half turned to Mr.