Lemuel was a man of middle age, with a Lombard Street complexion and an affectation of bluff geniality of which he was equally proud.

Except when they were actually in transit, he made few calls upon his new employee's time.

"Get about and enjoy yourself, Old Man"-everyone was Old Man to Mr. Lemuel. "You can see things here that you'll never see in England."

The Saint got about; and, in answer to Lemuel's casual inquiries, magnified his minor escapades into stories of which he was heartily ashamed. He made detailed notes of the true parts of some of his stories, to be reserved for future attention; but the Saint was a strong believer in concentrating on one thing at a time, and he was not proposing to ball up the main idea by taking chances on side issues-at the moment.

He met only one of Lemuel's business acquaintances, and this was a man named Jacob Einsmann, who dined with them one night. Einsmann, it appeared, had a controlling interest in two prosperous night clubs, and he was anxious for Lemuel to arrange lavish cabaret attractions. He was a short, florid-looking man, with an underhung nose and a superfluity of diamond rings.

"I must have it der English or American girls, yes," he insisted. "Der continental-pah! I can any number for noddings get, aind't it, no? But yours---"

He kissed excessively manicured fingers.

"You're right, Old Man," boomed Lemuel sympathetically. "English or American girls are the greatest troupers in the world. I won't say they don't get temperamental sometimes, but they've got a sense of discipline as well, and they don't mind hard work. The trouble is to get them abroad. There are so many people in England who jump to the worst conclusions if you try to send an English girl abroad."

He ranted against a certain traffic at some length; and the Saint heard out the tirade, and shrugged.