It was on the homeward hike that he met the stranger. His walk had been as solitary as a walk in North Devon can be: he had not even encountered any farm labourers, for the land for miles around was unclaimed moor. But this man was so obviously harmless, even at a distance of half a mile, that the Saint frowned thoughtfully.

The man was in plus-fours of a dazzling purple hue. He had a kind of haversack slung over his shoulder, and he carried a butterfly net. He moved aimlessly about — sometimes in short violent rushes, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling and rooting about on his hands and knees. He did not seem to notice Templar at all, and the Saint, moving very silently, came right up and stood over him during an exceptionally zealous burrowing exploration among some gorse bushes. While Simon watched, the naturalist made a sudden pounce, accompanied by a gasp of triumph, and wriggled back into the open with a small beetle held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. The haversack was hitched round, a matchbox secured, the insect 'imprisoned therein, and the box carefully stowed away. Then the entomologist rose to his feet, perspiring and very red in the face.

"Good-afternoon, sir," he remarked genially, mopping his brow with aa appallingly green silk handkerchief.

"So it is," agreed the Saint.

Mr. Templar had a disconcerting trick of taking the most conventional speech quite literally — a device which he had adopted because it threw the onus of continuing the conservation upon the other party.

"An innocuous and healthy pastime," explained the stranger, with a friendly and all-embracing sweep of his hand. "Fresh air — exercise — and all in the most glorious scenery in England."