Knight Templar, or The Avenging Saint

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" 'Ere," said an arm of the Law. "Not so much noise!"

The Saint stopped, facing round, tall and smiling and debonair.

"Good-evening—or morning—as the case may be," said the Saint politely.

"And what d'you think you're doing?" demanded the Law.

"Riding on a camel in the desert," said the Saint happily.

The Law peered at him suspiciously. But the Saint looked very respectable. The Saint always looked so respectable that he could at any time have walked into an ecclesiastical conference without even being asked for his ticket. Dressed in rags, he could have made a bishop look like two cents at a bad rate of exchange. And in the costume that he had donned for the night's oc­casion his air of virtue was overpowering. His shirtfront was of a pure and beautiful white that should have argued a pure and beautiful soul. His tuxedo, even under the poor illumination of a street lamp, was cut with such a dazzling per­fection, and worn moreover with such a staggering elegance, that no tailor with a pride in his profession could have gazed unmoved upon such a stupendous apotheosis of his art. The Saint, as he stood there, might have been taken for an unem­ployed archangel—if he had remembered to wear his soft black felt a little less rakishly, and to lean a little less rakishly on his gold-mounted stick. As it was, he looked like a modern pugilist, the heir to a dukedom, a successful confidence man, or an advertisement for Wuggo. And the odour of sanctity about him could have been scented a hundred yards up-wind by a man with a severe cold in the head and no sense of smell.

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