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to Lisbon in those few hours. In any case there was a time lag of several hours, which made it all the more inconceivable that he could have travelled from one engagement to the other.
    After leaving the Express building Simon drove to Berkeley Square, where Patroclos had his London house. Simon cruised around the square until he came to the number Patroclos had given him. And then, to put it mildly, he blinked his eyes in disbelief.
    True, the Patroclos house was one of the most expensive and elegant residences in that expensive and elegant quarter. That was exactly as the Saint had expected. But what he had not expected was to see Diogenes Patroclos and Ariadne getting out of a silver Bentley and going into the house.
    For perhaps a minute, the Saint stared after them at the closed door. They had given no sign of noticing his presence, but he had been close enough to them to see that the likeness, if they were doubles of the real Patroclos and Ariadne, was incredible. Certainly, the Saint mused, from a distance of a few feet it was utterly convincing visually. Whether the effect could be sustained at closer quarters, and when voices and mannerisms could be studied, remained to be seen. The Saint had every intention of taking a close look at the two of them, but first there was one obvious check that had to be made.
    He drove back to Manson Place and phoned Athens.
    After the usual delay he was connected with the Patroclos HQ. He asked for Patroclos, and Ariadne came on the line.
    “No, of course we are not in London. We are here in Athens.”
    “But I’ve just seen someone here — he could be him.”
    “That is impossible. Mr Patroclos is here in his office.”
    “Let me speak to him,” said the Saint.
    Ariadne hesitated.
    “He is in conference. He gave strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed.”
    “Get him to the phone — now,” Simon said flatly, “or I quit the job.”
    There was a moment’s silence.
    “All right,” Ariadne replied. “But he will be very angry. And you will have to wait while I interrupt the meeting.”
    After some delay Simon heard Patroclos’ familiar accents on the line.
    “Templar — I am told you have seen the impostor. Why are you wasting time telephoning, instead of watching him ?”
    “I just wanted to be quite sure,” explained the Saint, “that it was the impostor I saw.”
    “I am here in Athens. If you have seen the impostor, it should make your job easier. Now I am very busy. Please do not waste my time telling me that I am being impersonated. That I already know. Goodbye.”
    There was a definitive clunk on the line, followed by a silence that effectively terminated all argument.
    The Saint hung up and remained wrapped in thought for many minutes afterwards.
    However, he had certain other private interests of some insistence with legitimate demands on his time, so that it was not until the evening that his meditations reverted entirely to the problems of Diogenes Patroclos, as his peregrinations took the Hirondel again through Berkeley Square. And it happened that he was cruising past Patroclos’ house just as an easily recognisable “society” couple in evening dress got out of a chauffeur-driven car. They rang the bell; the door opened, and they were admitted at once, but not so quickly that Simon missed catching a glimpse of someone shaped like Ariadne who was doing the reception. By the time he had a chance to stop without creating a block of honking traffic, another evening-dressed and equally publicised couple arrived and were admitted by Ariadne’s double in the same manner. And then the Saint’s eyes widened in amazement as he realised the extent of the fake Patroclos’ sheer barefaced audacity.
    5
The impostor was giving a party.
    For a few blissful minutes, the Saint sat in the car and savoured the full rich succulence of the situation. He watched as more guests — a dozen or so more — arrived. And then he spoke philosophically calming