The Saint said nothing; but his blue eyes were suddenly very clear and hard.
"You see what it was?" In his weakness the shabby inventor was almost sobbing. "He swindled me. He gave my specifications to a friend of his and let him file them in his own name. I couldn't believe it. I went to the Patent Office myself this morning: a fellow I found there helped me to find what I wanted. Every figure in the specification was mine. It was my specification. The coincidence couldn't possibly have been so exact, even if somebody else had been working on that same idea at the same time as I was. But I can't prove anything. I haven't a shilling to fight him with. D'you hear? He's ruined me —"
"Steady on, uncle," said the Saint gently. "Have you seen this bird again?"
"I'd just left his office when — when you saw me at Charing Cross," said Inwood shakily. "He threw me out. When he found he couldn't bluff me he didn't bother to deny anything. Told me to go on and prove it, and be careful I didn't give him a chance to sue me for libel. There weren't any witnesses. He could say anything he liked —"
"Will you tell me his name?"
"Parnock."
"Thanks." Simon made a note on the back of an envelope. "Now will you do something else for me?"
"What is it?"
"Promise not to do anything drastic before Tuesday. I'm going away for the week-end, but Parnock won't be able to do anything very villainous either. I may be able to do something for you — I have quite a way with me," said the Saint bashfully.
This was on a Friday — a date that Simon Templar had never been superstitious about. He was on his way to Burnham for a week-end's bumping about in a ten-ton yawl, and the fact that Mr. Inwood's misadventure had made him miss his train was a small fee for the introduction to Mr. Parnock. He caught a later train with plenty of time to spare; but before he left the elderly chemist he obtained an address and telephone number.