be filling up time; and, as might have been expected of the man, he beguiled the time in his own incomparable fashion, with his own matchless zest; but it is inevitable that his own moods should be reflected in these tales which are exclusively his- that the twist of the tales should indicate what he himself felt about them at the time: that they were not really important and yet that they were none the less fantastically delightful interludes. For Simon Templar was incapable of taking anything of life half-heartedly-even an interlude. And it may be that because of all these things, because he had that vivid sense of the pleasant unimportance of all these adventures, the spirit of laughing devil-may-care quixotry that some have called his greatest charm dances through these tales as it does through few others.

I am thinking particularly of the adventure on which this story is based-a slight story, but a story. Yet it began practically from nothing-as, indeed, did most of the Saint's best stories. It has been said that Simon Templar had more than any ten men's fair share of luck in the way of falling into ready-made adventures; but nothing could be farther from the truth. It was the Saint's own unerring, uncanny genius, his natural instinct for adventure, that made him question things that no ordinary man would have thought to question, and sent him off upon broad, clear roads where no ordinary man would have seen the vestige of a trail; and some volcanic quality within himself that startled violent action out of situations that the ordinary man would have found stillborn. And if there is any story about the Saint that illustrates this fact to perfection it is this story which opens-ordinarily enough-upon the American Bar of the Piccadilly Hotel, two Manhattans, and a copy of the Evening Record.

"Eight to one," murmured the Saint complacently-"and waltzed home with two lengths to spare. That's another forty quid for the old oak chest. Where shall we celebrate old dear?"