The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

She was sitting in a solid oaken chair which seemed to have no place in that room and might even have been acquired for the occasion. The straps which he had just fastened pinned her wrists to the arms of it, and her ankles to the legs, and she knew at once that she would never be able to free herself unaided if she sat there for the rest of her life. So much she knew even before she pitched all her strength against the seasoned leather, and found the little Italian watching her with a kind of de­tached amusement.

"I do not think you will escape, Mees Trelawney," he said, "so I will excuse myself. I will send my friend away, and then I will come back and talk to you." The bright little eyes gleamed under the brim of his hat. "I have very interesting things to say to you—very interesting."

And as the door closed behind him something like a cold ghostly hand seemed to touch the back of her neck, sending a clammy tingle over her scalp and an icy numb­ness sinking down into the pit of her stomach.

Now that she knew he had nothing to do with the Saint, she wondered if the Saint knew anything about him—— if it were possible that the Saint might have noticed him at some time. It meant, at least, that the story of the Saint's arrest was probably untrue, mere bait for the trap into which she had walked so blindly. But how soon would the Saint find out, and, even then, what could he do? Such a little time could make so much difference. . . . And on the upturned dial of her wrist watch, almost under her eyes, three impersonal hands traced the crawling of time into eternity.

She watched their remorseless movements with a dull apathy of fascination, and saw the plodding minutes lengthen into an hour. She had no idea what Gugliemi could be doing; it did not seem to be useful to wonder. Probably he was drinking. . . . One hour became two. Something seemed to snap in her brain and make her insensible to the passage of time. What would the Saint be doing? . . . She was getting cramp and her nose was tickling. . . .