The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

And then footsteps sounded outside, and the handle of the door turned with a rattle that made her heart leap into her mouth and flop back into a furious hammering. A crazy hope that it might even be the Saint himself swept through her head—she had unconsciously attained to such a faith in the Saint, had fallen so deeply under his spell, without knowing it at the time, that she could have be­lieved him capable of any miracle. . . . But the sound heralded only the return of the dapper Gugliemi, now lightened of his hat and coat.

He came into the room and locked the door behind  him, and the girl raised her head.

"You've been a long time with your friend," she re­marked.

"Yes." He smiled. "He was a little difficult. But I have sent him away now, and he will not come back for two hours. That will give me plenty of time. I hope you are becoming interested."

"Not enough to raise my temperature. And I didn't invite you to sit down. Even if you are disguised as a gentleman——"

"Mees Trelawney——"

"Or perhaps you aren't disguised as a gentleman. I ad­mit the disguise wasn't very successful, but I thought that was what it was meant to be."

Gugliemi adjusted his tie with delicately manicured hands.

"Do you know what is going to happen to you?" he inquired.

His English had become more fluent, perhaps because his first agitation, which had not been entirely simulated, was wearing off.

"I told you I wasn't interested," she said.

Watching him, she appreciated the circumstances cold­bloodedly. Even her useless automatic had been taken from her; and she knew, from the grip that he had once taken on her wrists, that even if she had not been strapped to the chair he could have handled her as he pleased, slight as he was. And then ... Of course, the story of the Saint's arrest might possibly be true; but it was unlikely. Her thoughts were muddled by the feeling of exaspera­tion which ran through them. For her, after turning the laws of England inside out, and making enough trouble to whiten the hair of every man in Scotland Yard, to have fallen for a bushel of birdseed like that! But how long would it be before the Saint missed her?

Since she had been installed in the studio he had called at least every other day. Sometimes on consecutive days. At the best, reckoning upon his previous habits, he could not be expected to call again before to-morrow; and two hours, according to Gugliemi, were all the time that there was to spare.