"What are you going to do to Bellingford Smart? Couldn't we all go after him and tar and feather him, or something?"
"I don't think so," said the Saint carefully. "You see, that would be against the Law, and these days I'm developing quite an agile technique for clobbering the ungodly by strictly legal means."
His method in this case was not so unimpeachably legal as it might have been; but the Saint had a superb breadth of vision that was superior to such trivial details. At half past six the most unpopular landlord in London received a telephone call.
"Is that Mr. Shark?" asked the Saint innocently.
"This is Major Bellingford Smart speaking," admitted the landlord, shaking the receiver at his end, which did not seem to be working very well. In any case, he was rather particular about being given his full appellation. "Who is that?"
"This is Captain Bourne. You remember I saw your flat this morning?… Well, I've had urgent orders to get back as quickly as possible, and I've had to change my plans. I'm catching the Otranto at midnight."
"Are you really?" said Major Bellingford Smart.
"I've told my mother all about the flat, and she seems to think it would suit her down to the ground. She's decided to take it on my recommendation; so if it's still available —"
"Oh, yes, the flat is still available," said Major Bellingford Smart eagerly. "If Mrs. Bourne could call any time tomorrow —"
"I rather wanted to see her settled before I left," said the Saint. "Naturally my time's rather limited, having to pack up in a rush like this, and I'm afraid I've several engagements to get through. I don't know if you could possibly call here about half past ten — you could bring the lease with you, so that I could go through it — and my mother would sign it tonight."