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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.
    “I suppose you know more about it than I do, sir,” he submitted humbly, “but I always feel the danger’s exaggerated. There must be plenty of honest agents.”
    “There are, Old Man,” rumbled Lemuel. “But we get saddled with the crimes of those who aren’t.”
    Shortly afterwards, the conversation reverted to purely business topics; and the Saint, receiving a hint too broad to be ignored, excused himself.
    Lemuel and the Saint left for England the next morning, and at the hour when he took off from Waalhaven Aërodrome on the last stage of the journey (they had descended upon Rotterdam for a meal) Simon was very little nearer to solving the problem of Francis Lemuel than he had been when he left England.
    The inspiration came to him as they sighted the cliffs of Kent.
    A few minutes later he literally ran into the means to his end.
    It had been afternoon when they left the Tempelhof, for Mr. Lemuel was no early riser; and even then the weather had been breaking. As they travelled westwards it had grown steadily worse. More than once the Saint had had to take the machine very low to avoid clouds; and, although they had not actually encountered rain, the atmosphere had been anything but serene ever since they crossed the Dutch frontier. There had been one very bumpy half-hour during which Mr. Lemuel had been actively unhappy… .
    Now, as they came over English ground, they met the first of the storm.
    “I don’t like the look of it, Templar,” Mr. Lemuel opined huskily, through the telephones. “Isn’t there an aërodrome near here that we could land at, Old Man?”
    “I don’t know of one,” lied the Saint. “And it’s getting dark quickly-I daren’t risk losing my bearings. We’ll have to push on to Croydon.”
    “Croydon!”
    Simon heard the word repeated faintly, and grinned. For in a flash he had grasped a flimsy clue, and had seen his way clear; and the repetition had confirmed him in a fantastic hope.
    “Why Croydon?”
    “It’s the nearest aërodrome that’s fitted up for night landings. I don’t suppose, we shall have much trouble with the customs,” added the Saint thoughtfully.
    There was a silence; and the Saint flew on, as low as he dared, searching the darkening country beneath him. And, within himself, he was blessing the peculiar advantages of his favourite hobby.
    Times without number, when he had nothing else to do, the Saint had taken his car and set out to explore the unfrequented byways of England, seeking out forgotten villages and unspoiled country inns, which he collected as less robust and simple-minded men collect postage stamps. It was his boast that he knew every other inch of the British Isles blindfolded, and he may not have been very far wrong. There was one village, near the Kent-Surrey border, which had suggested itself to him immediately as the ideal place for his purpose.
    “I say, Old Man,” spoke Lemuel again, miserably.
    “Hullo?”
    “I’m feeling like death. I can’t go on much longer. Can’t you land in a field around here while there’s still a bit of light?”
    “I was wondering what excuse you’d make, dear heart,” said the Saint; but he said it to himself. Aloud, he answered cheer fully: “It certainly is a bit bumpy, sir. I’ll have a shot at it, if you like.”
    As a matter of fact, he had just sighted his objective, and he