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Bellamy Wage clenched his fists. He was pale and trembling with fear.
 Who are you? he asked shakily.
 I am Simon Templar, known as the Saint; and I expect it will be fun for you
to meet an honest man after all these twisters you ve had round you. I ve done
a lot of good work on this business myself, said the Saint modestly,  and put
up with a good deal of rudery and discomfort, for which someone is going to
have to console me. Jeffroll has misunderstood me from the beginning. I
suppose there was some excuse for him, but I don t know. He turned the ray of
his torch slightly.  By the way, brother, Julia is back.
The innkeeper stood looking at him with his mouth twitching mutely.
 That happens to be true, said the Saint quietly.  My friend-the Yankee
thug, I think you called him-rescued her and brought her back. You ll be able
to check up on that. And now let s move on-there s no scenery here, and I have
an aunt somewhere around who is calling me in a loud voice.
He shepherded the party back along the tunnel, after taking over Jeffroll s
revolver-the others were unarmed. At that stage of the proceedings he was
making no foolish mistakes, and his flock had no chance whatever to dispute
his orders. When the last of them had come up the ladder into the office, he
sat down at the desk and laid out his armoury on the blotter.
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 You can go and say hullo to Julia, Uncle Martin, he said.  We ll wait for
your report.
He waited, tranquilly smoking a cigarette. Weems sat down in another chair
and stared at the carpet. Voss finicked with his moustache. Portmore breathed
stertorously. Kane leaned against the wall, glowering at him in sulky silence.
Jeffroll came back, and the four men turned to look at him. The answer was in
his face, before he nodded.
 It s true, he said.  Julia s back. Mr. Templar 
 You owe me an apology, said the Saint gently.  Isn t that it? And another
apology to Hoppy Uniatz. He sighed.  But after all, what s an apology? Will
the Commissioners of Inland Revenue accept it in payment of our income tax?
Can we pass a bit of it over the bar and get a drink? No. Therefore I m afraid
we must have more.
 What are you going to do? sobbed Bellamy Wage, in a kind of panic.
The Saint smiled.
 I m going to ask you to do a little extra writing, dear old bird, he said.
 Here is the cheque-book on your old-age pension, removed from the custody of
Comrade Yestering. In case your memory is getting dim, the account is in the
name of Isledon. The reward you offered was five hundred thousand. According
to plan, it should have worked out at a hundred thousand each, but now it ll
have to be split seven ways. That is seventy-one thousand four hundred and
twenty-eight pounds eleven shillings and fivepence each, but you can make my
share payable to Hoppy Uniatz as well-he s earned it. And you boys, said the
Saint, glancing over the other conspirators and shuffling his guns
persuasively,  are going to take your loss and like it, being thankful that
Hoppy and I aren t naturally avaricious.
Bellamy Wage wrote according to instructions; and Simon picked up one of the
cheques and led him outside, to where Mr. Uniatz was waiting patiently beside
his carload of captives.
 Here s your transport, he said,  and I believe there s a motor-boat waiting
for you in the harbour and your own yacht outside. And I hope you ll be
seasick. . . . Get rid of these blisters, Hoppy, and come back for a
celebration. You must be dying of thirst, but they ve paid their passage and
they re entitled to the ride.
When he returned to the office he found five philosophical men examining
their cheques. Portmore was the spokesman.
 How about a drink? he suggested gruffly; and the Saint was delighted.
 I m glad we got things straightened out without bloodshed, he said.  I like
a good amateur; but there were moments when I thought you didn t appreciate
me.
 What do you think Garthwait and Yestering will do? asked Jeffroll.
He asked this some time later, after Hoppy had returned from his mission of
speeding the ungodly on their way. Mr. Uniatz, reclining in a corner with a
bottle of Johnnie Walker all to himself, had been immersed in a sort of coma,
with a scowl of hideous agony on his brow from which Simon deduced that he was
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