THE
SAINT
INTERVENES
LESLIE CHARTERIS
MB
A MACFADDEN-BARTELL BOOK
TO
H. H. GIBSON
THIS IS THE COMPLETE TEXT OF THE HARDCOVER EDITION
A
MACFADDEN BOOKS are published by
Macfadden-Bartell Corporation
205 East 42nd Street, New York, New York, 10017
Copyright, 1934, by Leslie Charteris. All rights reserved. Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.
CONTENTS
I The Ingenuous Colonel
II The Unfortunate Financier
III The Newdick Helicopter
IV The Prince of Cherkessia
V The Treasure of Turk's Lane
VI The Sleepless Knight
VII The Uncritical Publisher
VIII The Noble Sportsman
IX The Damsel in Distress
X The Loving Brothers
XI The Tall Timber
XII The Art Photographer
XIII The Man Who Liked Toys
XIV The Mixture as Before
I
The Ingenuous Colonel
Lieut.-Colonel Sir George Uppingdon, it must be admitted, was not a genuine knight; neither, as a matter of fact, was he a genuine colonel. This is not to say that he thought that sandbags contained the material for mixing trench mortar, or that an observation post was a species of flagpole on which inquisitive brigadiers hung at half-mast; but his military experience was certainly limited to a brief period during the latter days of the war when conscription had gathered him up and set him to the uncongenial task of peeling potatoes at Aldershot.
Apart from that not inglorious interlude of strengthening the stomachs of the marching armies, his career had been far less impressive than the name he passed under seemed to indicate. Pentonville had housed him on one occasion, and he had also taken one short holiday at Maidstone. Nevertheless, although the expensive public school which had taught him his practical arithmetic had long since erased his name from its register of alumni, he had never lost his well-educated and aristocratic bearing, and with the passing of time had added to them a magnificent pair of white moustachios which were almost as valuable to him in his career.
A slight tinge of the old-fashioned conservatism which characterised his style of dress clung equally limpet-like to the processes of his mind.
"These new-fangled stunts are all very well," he said doggedly. "But what happens to them? You work them once, and they receive a great deal of publicity, and then you can never use them again. How many of them will last as long as our tried and proved old friends?"
His companion on that occasion, an equally talented Mr. Sidney Immelbern—whose real name, as it happens, was Sidney Immelbern—regarded him gloomily.
"That's the trouble with you, George," he said. "It's the one thing which has kept you back from real greatness. You can't get it into your head that we've got to move with the times."
"It has also kept me out of a great deal of trouble," said the Colonel sedately. "If I remember rightly, Sid, when you last moved with the times, it was to Wormwood Scrubs."
Mr. Immelbern frowned. There were seasons when he felt that George Uppingdon's gentlemanly bearing had no real foundations of good taste.
"Well," he retorted, "your methods haven't made us millionaires. Here it's nearly two months since we made a click, and we only got eight hundred from that Australian at Brighton."
Mr. Irnmelbern's terse statement being irrefutable, a long and somewhat melancholy silence settled down upon the partnership.
