"For me," he said flatly. "The Yard has asked us to keep an eye on you, and I think you need a friend in this manor. Chuck the bluffing, Journ — I'm here for business."
Sumner Journ was silent for a moment; but he was not thinking of resuming the bluff. That wouldn't help. He had to thank his stars that his first police visitor was a man who so clearly and straightforwardly understood the value of hard cash.
"How much do you want?" he asked.
"Two hundred pounds," was the calm reply.
Mr. Journ put up a hand and twirled one of the tiny horns of his wee moustache with the tip of his finger and thumb. His hard brown eyes studied Inspector Tombs unwinkingly.
"That's a lot of money," he said with an effort.
"What I can tell you is worth it," Simon told him grimly.
Mr. Journ hesitated for a short time longer, and then he took out a cheque-book and dipped his pen in the inkwell.
"Make it out to Bearer," said the Saint, who in spite of his morbid affection for the cognomen of "Tombs" had not yet thought it worth while opening a bank account in that name.
Journ completed the cheque, blotted it, and passed it across the desk. In his mind he was wondering if it was the fee for Destiny's warning: if Scotland Yard had asked the local division to "keep an eye on him," it was a sufficient hint that his activities had not passed unnoticed, and a suggestion that further inquiries might be expected to follow. He had not thought that it would happen so soon; but since it had happened, he felt a leaden heaviness at the pit of his stomach and a restless anxiety that arose from something more than a mere natural resentment at being forced to pay petty blackmail to a dishonest detective. And yet, so great was his seasoning of confidence that even then he was not anticipating any urgent danger.