"Five pounds."
"What for after that?"
"Do you know how to get in touch with the Angels?"
Slinky shook his head.
"Never mind that," said the Saint. "I guess they'll hear about it, if you carry it round and talk a lot about how I gave it to you — without mentioning the five pounds. Tell the world how I beat you up and tried to make you howl on the Angels, and how you're going to get even with me one day. The Angels don't like me, and they'd be glad to find a man who hates me as much as you're going to. If we're lucky, you'll find yourself enlisted in the gang in less than no time. Then you keep me posted."
"You mean," said Slinky, "you want me to be your nose?"
"That's the idea."
Dyson sighed.
"I've never been a nose," he said solemnly. "No, Mr. Templar, it can't be done."
"You will be paid," said the Saint deliberately, "twenty pounds' cash for every genuine piece of news you send in about what the Angels are going to do next and how they're going to do it."