He was half a head shorter than the Saint, but a good two stone heavier. His eyes were large and childlike behind a pair of enormous horn-rimmed glasses, and he wore a straggly pale walrus moustache. The sight of this big middle-aged man in the shocking clothes, with his ridiculous little butterfly net, was as diverting as anything the Saint could remember.

"Of course — you're Dr. Carn," said the Saint, and the other started.

"How did you know?"

"I always seem to be giving people surprises," complained Simon, completely at his ease. "It's so simple. You look less like a doctor than anyone but a doctor could look, and there's only one doctor in Baycombe. How's trade?

Suddenly Carn was no longer genial.

"My profession?" he said stiffly, "I don't quite understand."

"You are one of many," signed the Saint, "Nobody ever quite understands me. And I wasn't talking about your new profession, but about your old trade."

Carn looked very closely at the younger matt, but Simon was gazing at the sea, and his face was inscrutable except for a faintly mocking twist at the corners of his mouth — a twist, that might have meant anything.

"You're clever, Templar — "

"Mr. Templar to the aristocracy, but Saint to you," Simon corrected him benevolently. "Naturally I'm clever. If I wasn't, I'd be dead. And my especial brilliance is an infallible memory for faces."

"You're clever, Templar, but this time you're mistaken, and persisting in your delusion is making you forget your manners."

The Saint favoured Carn with a lazy smile.

"Well, well," he murmured, "to err is human, is it not? But tell me, Dr. Carn, why you allow an automatic pistol to spoil the set of that beautiful coat? Are you afraid of a scarabaeus turning at bay? Or is it that you're scared of a Great White Woolly Wugga-Wugga jumping out of a bush?"