The sergeant nodded sagely, no doubt squandering a moment on the satisfactory vision of his own name in the headlines. Then he returned to business.
"I'd better just have your name and address, sir, in case you're wanted for the inquest."
Simon felt in his pocket, produced a card, scribbled on it and handed it over.
"That's where I'll be staying for the next few days." He started to move on, and then turned back. "By the way, who was that other fellow — the bloke who looks as if he'd been chopped out of a small piece of cliff?"
"You mean Mr Luker, sir? He often comes down and stays with Mr Fairweather. He's a financier, or something like that, I believe."
"A financier, is he?" said the Saint slowly. "What fun!"
He walked on and climbed into the car with a new load of tangled thoughts. The engine started with a low whirr, and they drove back along the drive and slid round the corner into the road.
Presently the Saint said, inconsequentially: "Next time I go to a fire I'm going to wear some old clothes."
"You're better off than I am," said Patricia. "You've got some other things left. Lady Sangore and Valerie Woodchester between them have just about wrecked my suitcases. Lady Sangore practically told me that all my undies were immoral, but it didn't stop her helping herself to all she wanted. You know the sort. A pillar of the British Empire and underpays her maids."
"I know," said the Saint feelingly. "What about the Woodchester girl?"