The Saint Meets His Match by Leslie Charteris

of
Doom would miss you!” she said caustically. “Without you they’d be
absolutely helpless. The great brain, always clear and alert in times of
crisis.”
    “Jill!”
    “Oh, be quiet!”
Her sarcasm turned to contempt sud denly. “When
you’re sober you’re futile, and when you’re drunk
you maunder. I don’t know which is worse. Now pull
yourself together. Donnell is ready to do his part, and his boys are with him, but he’s looking to you and me to pull him
through. The Angels have never failed yet, and they can’t fail now.”
    “But, Jill —— ”
    “And a little less of
the ‘Jill,’ ” she cut in icily. “This place
can stand a siege for a week, and we can still get out that way if we have
to. But I’m going to let Templar in—right
in—and there’s going to be no mistake about him this time.”
    He swayed towards her.
    “And I say we’re
going out this way—now!” he shouted. “I’ve
had about enough of being ordered about by you, and being snubbed, and
treated like a child. Now you’re going to do
what I say, for a change. Come on!”
    She regarded him with a
calculating eye.
    “About one more drink,” she said,
“and you’d be dead drunk. On the whole,
I think I’d prefer that to your present
state.”
    “Oh you would, would
you?”
    The resentment which Weald
had been afraid to let loose before Donnell he had no need to control
now. He grasped her shoulders with clumsy hands.
    “That’s the sort of talk I’m not standing
from you any longer,” he said shrilly.
“You’re going to stop it, right now, do you see? From now on I’m going to
give the orders and you’re going to obey them. I love you!”
    “You’re mad,”
she said coldly. But for the first time in her
life a little imp of fear plucked at her heart.
    He thrust his face down
close to hers. She could smell the drink on his breath.
    “I’m not mad. I’ve
been mad before, but I’m sensible now. I want to
take you away—out of here—out of Eng land—out into the
world! I’m going to give you jewels, and beautiful clothes. And you’re going
to love me, and there’s going to be no one else. You’re going to forget all this nonsense abut your father. You’re not going to
think about it any more. It’s going
to be just you and me, Jill! Lovely
Jill—”
    She flung him off so that
he went reeling back against the wall and almost fell.
Then she jerked from her bag the little automatic she always
carried, but he leapt at her like a tiger and tore it
out of her hands.
    “No, Jill, that’s not
the way. Not like that. Like this,”
    His arms went round her.
She fought him back des perately, but he was too
strong for her. Once she was almost able to tear
herself away, but he blundered after her, still clutching
her sleeve, and caught her again. His lips were trying to find her mouth.
    Suddenly she went limp in
his arms. It was the only thing she could do at that
moment—to pretend to faint, and thus give herself a
chance to catch him off his guard. And for a space
Stephen Weald looked down at her stupidly. Then, with a
sudden resolution, he swung her off her feet and carried,
her through the open cupboard.
    Hampered by his burden, he
could only feel his way down step by step. The
direct light above was soon lost, and the stairs grew
darker and darker. He went on. Then another light dawned
below, and grew more powerful as he proceeded farther
downward; at last the bulb which gave the light was on the
level of his eyes. He went down beneath it, and presently
found himself on level stone.
    A corridor stretched away
before him, lighted at long intervals by electric
bulbs. He went on down it and felt a faint breath of
fresh air on his face. Presently the tunnel forked.
Donnell had not told him about that. He hesitat ed,
and then plunged into the right-hand branch. In a few yards it took a turn, and
a door faced him. He got it open and went into darkness.
Groping round, he found a switch, and when he had
clicked