Saint Intervenes Read Free

and I can do our business as well without being rushed
about.”
    “But
Sir George!” said Immelbern imploringly. “Won’t you listen
to reason ? Look here, can I speak to you alone for a minute? Mr. Templar will excuse
us.”
    He
grabbed the spluttering Colonel by the arm and dragged him away almost by main
force. They retreated to the other end of the lounge.
    “We’ll
get him,” said the Colonel, gesticulating furiously.
    “I
know,” said Mr. Immelbern, beating his fist on the palm of his
hand. “That is, if you don’t scare him off with that imitation
of a colonel. That stuff’s so old-fashioned it makes me want to cry. Have you found out who he
is?”
    “No. I
don’t even recognise his name.”
    “Probably
he’s mistaken you for somebody else,” said Mr. Immelbern, appearing
to sulk.
    The
Colonel turned away from him and marched back to the table, with Mr.
Immelbern following him glumly.
    “Well,
that’s settled, by Gad,” he said breezily. “If you’ve finished your
drink, my dear fellow, we’ll get along at once.”
    They went
in a taxi to the Colonel’s apartment, a small suite at the lower
end of Clarges Street. Uppingdon burbled on with engaging
geniality, but Mr. Immelbern kept his mouth tightly closed and
wore the look of a man suffering from toothache.
    “How
about some caviar sandwiches and a bottle of wine ?” suggested
the Colonel. “I can fix those up myself. Or if you’d prefer
something more substantial, I can easily get it sent in.”
    “Caviar
sandwiches will do for me,” murmured Simon ac commodatingly.
    There was
plenty of caviar, and some excellent sherry to pass the time while
the Colonel was preparing the sandwiches. The wine was
impeccable, and the quantity apparently un limited. Under its
soothing influence even the morose Mr. Immelbern seemed to thaw slightly,
although towards the end of the meal he kept looking at his watch and comparing it anxiously with the clock on the mantelpiece. At a
quarter to two he caught his
partner’s eye in one of the rare lulls in the Colonel’s meandering flow of reminiscence.
    “Well,
Sir George,” he said grimly, “if you can spare the time now—— ”
    “Of
course,” said the Colonel brightly.
    Mr.
Immelbern looked at their guest, and hesitated again.
    “Er—to
deal with our business.”
    Simon put
down his glass and rose quickly.
    “I’ll
leave you to it,” he said pleasantly. “Really, I’ve imposed on you
quite long enough.”
    “Sit
down, my dear chap, sit down,” commanded the Colo nel testily.
“Dammit, Sidney, your suspicions are becoming ridiculous. If you go
on in this way I shall begin to believe you suffer from
delusions of persecution. I’ve already told you that Mr. Templar
is an old friend of mine, by Gad, and it’s an insult to a guest in my house
to suggest that you can’t trust him. Anything we have to discuss can be
said in front of him.”
    “But
think, Sir George. Think of the risk!”
    “Nonsense,”
snorted the Colonel. “It’s all in your imagina tion. In
fact”—the idea suddenly appeared to strike him— “I’m damned if I
don’t tell him what it’s all about.”
    Mr.
Immelbern opened his mouth, closed it again, and sank back wearily without speaking. His
attitude implied that he had already
exhausted himself in vain appeals to an ob vious lunatic, and he was beginning to realise that it was of no avail. He could do no more.
    “It’s
like this, my dear chap,” said the Colonel, ignoring him.
“All that this mystery amounts to—all that Immelbern here is so
frightened of telling you—is that we are profes sional gamblers. We
back racehorses.”
    “That
isn’t all of it,” contradicted Mr. Immelbern sullenly.
    “Well,
we have certain advantages. I, in my social life, am very friendly with a
large number of racehorse owners. Mr. Immelbern is friendly with trainers
and jockeys. Between the two of us, we sometimes have infallible
information, the re sult of piecing together