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woman out of a Mary Petty drawing, protruding fore and aft, with several powdered chins and a look of determined charity. The man was a nonentity beside her, spare and white-haired and silent, his gaze fixed abstractedly on the far distances and his fingers fumbling with the watch chain stretched across his vest.
    “Thank you,” the Saint mumbled. “God bless you, ma’am.”
    “Oh, you’re welcome,” the treacly voice said, and, startlingly, giggled. “I always feel I must give to the poor unfortunates.”
    “What?” The man let go of his watch chain. “Laura, we’ll be late.”
    “Oh, dear. Of course—”
    She went on, her ridiculously high heels clicking busily and helping to exaggerate the undulant protrusion of her behind.
    Hoppy Uniatz, coming by on one of his visits just then, leaned against the wall by the Saint and craned to peer into the cup.
    “A lousy dime,” he observed disgustedly. “An’ I could get ten grand right around de corner for dem rocks she’s wearin’.”
    “It’s the spirit that counts,” said the Saint. “Didn’t you recognize her?”
    “She ain’t anudder of dem actresses, is she?”
    “No. But she doesn’t do all her charity with dimes. That’s Mrs. Laura Wingate. I’ve seen her in the papers lately. She’s been backing Stephen Elliott-the abstracted gentleman you just saw.”
    “What’s his racket?”
    “Founding missions and homes for the poor. Philanthropy… . Take a walk, Hoppy,” the Saint said abruptly, in the same low tone, and Mr. Uniatz’s eyelids flickered. But he did not look around. With a grunt he reached for a coin, dropped it into the tin cup, and moved away.
    “God bless you,” the Saint said, more loudly now.
    Another man stood in front of him. He was tall, bitter-faced, sharply dressed. Pale blond hair showed under an expensive hat. A hairline mustache accentuated the thin lines of the downcurved mouth.
    Simon intoned: “Help a poor blind man… . Buy a pencil?”
    The man said: “I want to talk to you.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
    Simon nodded.
    “Yes, sir. A friend told me this was a good corner-and the man who had it died just lately—”
    “That’s right,” the clipped harsh voice said. “He died, sure enough. Know why he died?”
    “No, sir.”
    “He wasn’t smart. That’s why he died. Maybe you’re smarter. Think so?”
    “I … don’t quite understand.”
    “I’m telling you. Ever hear of the Metropolitan Benevolent Society?”
    Simon moved his head slowly, with the helpless searching motion of the blind.
    “I’m new in town,” he whined. “Nobody told—”
    “The head guy is the King of the Beggars.”
    It sounded unreal in the mechanical hubbub of the Chicago street. It belonged in the time of Francois Villon, or in the lands of the Arabian Nights, Yet the fantastic title came easily from the thin twisted lips of the blond man, but without even the superficial glamour of those periods. In terms of today it was as coldly sinister as a leveled gun barrel. Simon had a moment’s fastidious, catlike withdrawal from that momentary evil, but it was purely an inward motion. To all appearances he was still the same-a blind beggar, a little frightened now, and very unsure of himself.
    Even his voice was high-pitched and hesitant.
    “I’ve … heard of him. Yes, sir. I’ve heard of him.”
    The blond man said: “Well, the King sent me especially to invite you to join the Society.”
    “But suppose I don’t-“
    “Suit yourself. The guy who had this corner before you didn’t want to join, either. So?”
    The Saint said nothing. Presently, very slowly, he nodded.
    “Smart boy,” the blond man said. “I’ll pick you up at ten tonight, right here.”
    “Yes, sir,” Simon Templar whispered.
    The blond man went away.
    CHAPTER SIX
“Dat was Frankie,” Mr. Uniatz announced, a few minutes later. “He ain’t changed much.”
    “Frankie himself, eh?” Simon smiled. “Well,