"I saw him do it," babbled a fat woman smugly. "With me own eyes I saw it. Jumped in front of the train as deliberate as you please. I saw him."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken, madam," said the Saint quietly. "This gentleman is a friend of mine. He's subject to rather bad fits, and one of them must have taken him just as the train was coming in. He was standing rather close to the edge of the platform, and he simply fell over."
"A very plucky effort of yours, sir, getting him out of the way," opined a white-whiskered military type. "Very plucky, by Gad!"
Simon Templar, however, was not looking for bouquets. The shabby man was sitting motionlessly with his head in his hands: the desperation that had driven him into that spasmodic leap had left him, and he was trembling silently in a helpless reaction. Simon slipped an arm around him and lifted him to his feet; and as he did so the guard broke through the crowd.
"I shall 'ave to make a report of this business, sir," he said.
"Lord — I'm not going to be anybody's hero!" said the Saint. "My name's Abraham Lincoln, and this is my uncle, Mr. Christopher Columbus. You can take it or leave it."
"But if the gentleman's going to make any claim against the company I shall 'ave to make a report, sir," pleaded the guard plaintively.
"There'll be no complaints except for wasting time, Ebenezer," said the Saint. "Let's go."
He helped his unresisting salvage into a compartment, and the crowd broke up. The District Railway resumed its day's work; and Simon Templar lighted a cigarette and glanced whimsically at Patricia.
"What d'you think we've picked up this time, old dear?" he murmured.