The Saint had begun to drive.
He had no gift of second sight to tell him what that fire was to mean; but just as a fire it was sufficient. It might be fun. And he was going there — in a hurry now. And in his mercurial philosophy that was enough. His eyes had narrowed and come to life with the zest of the moment, and a shadow of his last smile lingered half remembered on his lips… Half a mile further on a side road opened sharply to the right, leading in the direction of the red glow. As he approached it, the Saint shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake and wrenched the wheel round; the rear wheels whipped round with a scream of skidding rubber, spun, bit at the road again, took hold, and catapulted the car forward again at right angles to its previous course as the Saint's toe returned to the accelerator.
"That's how these racing blokes do it," he explained.
Patricia lighted two cigarettes.
"What do they do when they want to turn quickly?" she inquired tranquilly.
The way Simon slanted one of the cigarettes between his lips was its own impudent answer. The vivid red stain in the sky was almost straight ahead of them now, growing so that it blotted out the stars, and they were rushing towards it down the narrow lane with the speed of a hurricane. They squealed round another bend, and once more the Saint jammed on the brakes. On their left was a half-timbered lodge beside broad iron gates that opened on to a curving drive.
"This should be it," said the Saint; and again the great car seemed to pivot on its locked front wheels to make the turn.
In another moment they had the acrid smell of burning wood sharp in their nostrils. They swept round a semicircular channel of trees, and in an instant they were caught full in the red glare as if they had been picked up by quivering floodlights. Simon let the Hirondel coast to a breathless standstill beside a broad close-cropped lawn and hitched himself up to sit on the back of the seat for a better view.
"It is a fire," he decided, with profound satisfaction.
It was. The whole lawn was lit up by it like a stage set, and a curtain of black smoke hung over it like a billowing curtain. The house was one of those old historic mansions whose lining of massive beams and mellowed panelling could be diagnosed at a glance, and it was going up like a pile of tinder. The fire seemed to have started on the ground floor, for huge gusts of flame were spouting from the open windows along the terrace and climbing like wind-ripped banners towards the roof, roaring with a boisterous glee that could be clearly heard even above the reduced splutter of the Hirondel's exhaust. The Saint drew at his cigarette and settled more firmly into his conviction that, judged by any pyrotechnical standards, it was a beaut.