“Corse yer can,” agreed Orace scornful. “Never knew a crook ’oo couldn’t.”
“Oh, but he can,” said the Saint. “You can stop flourishing that cannon, Orace, and come right in. I was just wondering how to get hold of you.”
Orace looked doubtful, but eventually he obeyed, clambering lamely over the sill and treating Bloem to a menacing glare as he did so.
“Yessir?”
“A simple case of mistaken identity,” remarked the Saint to the assembled company, in the manner of counsel opening the defence. “But Mr. Bloem was so very obstinate. . . . Well, this is Orace, late of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, and my servant for years. Orace will now testify that I reached home just after eleven, and didn’t leave again until about twenty to twelve.”
The Saint did not even look at Orace as he spoke, for he knew his man. Carn, however, did, and saw Orace register surprise.
“Tha’s so,” said Orace. “ ’Oo said yer didn’t?”
“You see,” Simon explained, “Mr. Bloem there was held up by an armed man to-night, and he had the idea that it was me, so he’s been trying to arrest me.”
Orace nodded, tilting his head away from Bloem as if the man offended his nostrils.
“Ar,” said Orace derisively. “The idea!”