In the three days since his last visit life had been allowed to deal peacefully with him. He had used the milk from outside his front door with a sublime confidence in its purity, and had not been disappointed. He had walked in and out of the house without any fear of being again enfiladed by machine-gun fire; and in that again his judgment had proved to be right. On the other hand, he had treated letters and parcels delivered to him, and taxis which offered themselves for his hire, with considerable suspicion. He had as yet found no justification for this carefulness, but he realized that the calm could only be the herald of a storm. Possibly this third visit to Belgrave Street would precipitate the storm. He was prepared for it to do so.
He was kept waiting outside for some time before his summons was answered. He did not stand at the top of the stairs, however, while he was waiting, in a position where sudden death might reach him through the letter box, but placed himself on the pavement behind the shelter of one of the pillars of the portico. From behind this, with one eye looking round it, he was able to see the slight movement of a curtain in a ground-floor window as someone looked out to discover who the visitor was. Simon allowed his face to be seen, and then withdrew into cover until the door opened. Then he entered quickly.
"Miss Trelawney is expecting you," said Wells as he closed the door.
The Saint glanced searchingly round the hall and up the stairs as far as he could see. There was no one else about.
He smiled seraphically.
"You're getting quite truthful in your old age, Freddie," he remarked, and went up the stairs.
The girl met him on the landing.
"I got your message to say you were coming."
"I hope it gave you a thrill," said the Saint earnestly.
He looked past her into the sitting room.