"There's nothing wrong with that beer," growled Basher.

"Then you may have it," said the Saint generously. "Bring me a bottle of whisky. A new one--and I'll draw the cork myself."

Basher Tope was away five minutes, and at the end of that time he came back and banged an unopened bottle of whisky and a corkscrew down on the table.

"Bring me two glasses," said the Saint.

Basher Tope was back in time to witness the extraction of the cork; and Simon poured a measure of whisky into each glass and splashed water into it.

"Drink with me, Basher," invited the Saint cordially, taking up one of the glasses.

Tope shook his head.

"I don't drink."

"You're a liar, Basher," said the Saint calmly. "You drink like a particularly thirsty fish. Look at your nose!"

"My nose is my business," said Tope truculently.

"I'm sorry about that," said Simon. "It must be, rotten for you. But I want to see you have a drink with me. Take that glass!"

"I don't want it," Tope retorted stubbornly.

Simon put his glass down again.

"I thought the lead cap looked as if it had been taken off very carefully, and put back again," he said. "I just wanted to verify my suspicions. You can go. Oh, and take this stuff with you and pour it, down the sink."

He left Basher Tope standing there and went straight upstairs. The fire ready-laid in his bedroom tempted him almost irresistibly, for he was a man who particularly valued the creature comforts, but he felt that it would be wiser to deny himself that luxury. Anything might happen in that place at night, and Simon decided that the light of a dying fire might not be solely to his own advantage.

He undressed, shivering, and jumped into bed. He had locked his door, but he considered that precaution of far less value than the tiny little super-sensitive silver bell which he had fixed into the woodwork of the door by means of a metal prong.