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The village was in the centre of the arc. He was on one of the arms of the bay, which was roughly semicircular.

'Only a couple of inches out.'īut he was on his feet before the sound of the shot had reached him. 'Bad luck, sonny,' murmured the Saint mildly. Something sang past his ear, and the pebble at which he had been staring in an absent-minded sort of way leaped sideways and was left with a silvery streak scored across it, while the thing that had sung changed its note and went whining seaward. Then he lay at the edge of the surf, basking in the strengthening sun.Īll these things he had done as regularly on the two previous mornings, and he was languidly pondering the deadliness of regular habits when the thing happened that proved to him quite conclusively that regular habits could be more literally deadly than he had allowed for. He covered a quarter of a mile at racing speed, turned on his back and paddled lazily shoreward, finishing the last hundred yards like a champion. A hundred and fifty foot drop lay beneath him, but handholds were plentiful, and he descended to the beach as nonchalantly as he would have descended a flight of stairs. Then he grabbed a towel, knotted it loosely round his neck, sprinted the couple of dozen yards that lay between the Pill Box and the edge of the cliff, and coolly swung himself over the edge. He skipped energetically on the grass outside for fifteen minutes. He shaved rapidly, sipping his tea in between whiles, and then pulled on a bathing costume and went out into the sun, picking up a length of rope on his way out. The optimism of Orace being justified, Simon Templar sighed, stretched himself again, and after a moment's indecision leaped out of bed. The Saint yawned, stretched himself like a cat, and saw with half-closed eyes that a stream of sunlight was pouring in through the embrasure which did duty for a window. Orace had remarked on the niceness of the morning for the last eight years, and he had never allowed the weather to change his pleasant custom. 'Nice morning, sir,' said Orace, and retired. on this third day (the Saint had a rooted objection to early rising) the man who went by the name of Orace entered his master's bedroom bearing a cup of tea and mug of hot water. And the Saint had been so overcome with the dullness of Baycombe that within three days he was the victim of routine.Īt 9 a. In this curious home the Saint had installed himself, together with a retainer who went by the name of Orace.

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