And he went striding down the hill towards the village, leaving Orace to pessimistic disgust.
It was early summer, and pleasantly warm—a fact which made the Saint’s selection of the Pill Box for a home less absurd than it would have seemed in winter. (There was another reason for his choice, besides a desire for quantities of fresh air and the simple life, as will be seen.) The Saint whistled as he walked, swinging his heavy stick, but his eyes never relaxed their vigilant study of every scrap of cover that might hide another sniper. He walked boldly down to the bushes which he had suspected that morning and spent some time in a minute search for incriminating evidence; but there had been no rain for days, and even his practised eye could make little of the spoor he found. Near the edge of the cliff he caught a golden gleam under a tuft of grass, and found a cartridge-case.
“Three-one-five Mauser,” commented the Saint. “Naughty, naughty!”
He dropped the shell into his pocket and studied the ground closely, but the indistinct impressions gave him no clue to the size or shape of the unknown, and at last he resumed his thoughtful progress towards the village.
Baycombe, which is really no more than a fishing village, lies barely above sea-level, but on either side the red cliffs rise away from the harbour, and the hills rise behind, so that Baycombe lies in a hollow opening on the Bristol Channel. Facing seawards from the harbour, the Pill Box would have been seen crowning the tor on the right, the only building to the east for some ten miles; the tor on the left was some fifty feet lower, and was dotted with half a dozen red brick and grey stone houses belonging to the aristocracy. The Saint, via Orace, who had drunk beer in the public-house by the quay to some advantage, already knew the names and habits of this oligarchy. The richest member was one Hans Bloem, a Boer of about fifty, who was also reputed to be the meanest man in Devonshire. Bloem frequently had a nephew staying with him who was as popular as his uncle was unpopular: the nephew was Algernon de Breton Lomas-Coper, wore a monocle, was one of the Lads, and highly esteemed locally for a very pleasant ass. The Best People were represented by Sir Michael Lapping, a retired Judge; the Proletariat by Sir John Bittle, a retired Wholesale Grocer. There was a Manor, but it had no Lord, for it had passed to a gaunt, grim, masculine lady, Miss Agatha Girton, who lived there, unhonoured and unloved, with her ward, whom the village honoured and loved without exception. For the rest, there were two Indian Civil Servants who, under the prosaic names of Smith and Shaw, survived on their pensions in a tiny bungalow; and a Dr. Carn.
“A very dull and ordinary bunch,” reflected Simon Templar, as he stood at the top of the village street pondering his next move. “Except, perhaps, the ward. Is she the luvverly ’eroine of this blinkin’ adventure?”
This hopeful thought directed his steps towards the “Blue Moon,” which was at the same time Baycombe’s club and pub. But the Saint did not reach the “Blue Moon” that morning, because as he passed the shop which supplied all the village requirements, from shoes to ships and sealing-wax, a girl came out.
“I’m so sorry,” said the Saint, steadying her with one arm.
He retrieved the parcel which the collision had knocked out of her hand, and in returning it to her he had the chance of observing her face more closely. He could find no flaw there, and she had the most delightful of smiles. Her head barely topped his shoulder.
“You must be the ward,” said Simon. “Miss Pat—the village doesn’t give you a surname.”