“He’s gone,” Templar said. “He ducked as soon as I spoke. But maybe now you realise how hard it is not to be killed when someone’s really out for your blood. It looks so easy in stories, but I’m finding it a bit of a strain.”
The Saint was talking in his usual mild leisurely way, but there was nothing leisurely about his movements. He had turned out the lamp at the same instant as Carn had jumped up, and his words came from the direction of the embrasure.
“Can’t see anything. This bunch are as windy as mice trying to nibble a cat’s whiskers. I’ll take a look outside. Stay right where you are, sonny.”
Carn heard the Saint slither out, and there were words in the kitchen. A few seconds later Orace came in, bearing a lighted candle and clasping his beloved blunderbuss in his free hand. Orace did not speak. He set the candle down in a corner, so that the light did not interfere with his view of the embrasure, and waited patiently with the enormous revolver cocked and at the ready.
“You have an exciting life,” remarked Carn, and Orace turned an unfriendly eye—and the revolver upon the Doctor.
“Um,” said Orace noncommittally.
The Saint was back in ten minutes by the clock.
“Bad huntin’,” he murmured. “It’s as black as coffee outside, and he must have hared for home as soon as I scared him. . . . Beer, Orace.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the silent one, and faded out as grimly as he had entered.
Carn gazed thoughtfully after the retreating figure with its preposterous armoury and its preposterous strut.