"What's your opinion, Mr. Templar?" asked Yearleigh. "Don't you think Maurice is talking like one of these damned street-corner Reds?" The Saint nodded.
"Yes, I do," he said. There was a moment's silence; and then he added thoughtfully: "I rather like these street-corner Reds — one or two of them are really sincere."
Chief Inspector Teal nibbled a crust of bread secure in his voluntary self-effacement, while Mrs. Ormer made some twittering remark and the thread of conversation drifted off into a less dangerously controversial topic. He had, he admitted, failed dismally in his little solitaire game of spotting the prospective murderer. A Cabinet Minister, a multi-millionaire, and a poet did not seem to comprise a gathering amongst whom a practical detective could seek hopefully for felons. The only suspect left for him was still the Saint; and yet even when the meal was finished, after the ladies had retired and the port and cigars had been passed around, he had no reason, actual or intuitive, to believe that Simon Templar was meditating the murder of his host.
Yearleigh rose, and there was a general pushing back of chairs. The noble sportsman caught the detective's eye; and for the first time since Teal's arrival the object of his invitation was brought up again.
"I've had another of those damned letters," he said.
He produced it from his pocket, and held it out in a movement that was a general announcement that anyone who cared to might peruse it. Vould and the Saint, who were nearest, shared it with Mr. Teal.—
The message contained two lines in laboured script.
Since you have ignored my previous warnings, you will learn your lesson tonight.
There was no signature — not even the skeleton haloed figure which Teal had half expected to see.
The detective folded the letter and put it away in his wallet. His faded sleepy eyes turned back to his host.