"It wouldn't be any use to you," said the Saint tersely. "We know you've got one, and we know what name it's in. They'll be watching for you at all the ports. You'd never get through."
"But where can I go?" Journ almost sobbed.
Simon lighted a cigarette and looked at him.
"Have you got any more money?"
"Yes." Sumner Journ saw his companion's keen blue eyes fixed on the swollen brief-bag which he was clutching on his knees, and added belatedly: "A little."
"You'll need a lot," said the Saint. "I've risked my job standing outside your apartment to catch you when you arrived, if you got there before Teal; and I didn't do it for nothing. Now listen. I've got a friend who does a bit of smuggling from the Continent with a private aeroplane. He's got his own landing-grounds, here and in France. I've done him a few favours, the same as I've done for you already, and I can get him to take you to France — or further, if you want to go. It's your only chance; and it'll cost you two thousand pounds."
Mr. Journ swallowed.
"All right," he gulped. "All right. I'll pay it."
"It's cheap at the price," said Inspector Tombs, and leaned forward to give further instructions to the driver.
Presently they turned into a mews off Queen's Gate. Simon paid off the cab, and asked the garage proprietor for the loan of a telephone. He spoke a few cryptic words to his connection, and returned smiling.