The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

"How are the Angels this afternoon?" he inquired.

"They are"—she waved a vague hand—"here and there."

"Nice for them. May I sit down?"

"I think——"

"Thanks." He sat down. "But don't let me stop you thinking."

She took a cigarette from the box beside her and fitted it into a long amber holder. Weald applied a match.

"You forgot to ask me if I minded," said the Saint reproachfully. "Where are your manners, Jill?"

She turned in her chair—a movement far more abrupt than she meant it to be.

"If the police have to pester me," she said, "I should have appreciated their consideration if they'd sent a gentleman to do it."

"Sorry," said Simon. "Our gentlemen are all out pester­ing ladies. The chief thought I'd be good enough for you. Backchat. However, I'll pass on your complaint when I get back."

"If you get back."

"This afternoon," said the Saint. "And I shan't worry if he takes me off the job. Man-size criminals are my mark, and footling around with silly little girls like you is just squandering my unique qualities as a detective. More backchat."

Weald butted in, from the other side of the room:

"Jill, why do you waste time——"

"It amuses her," said the Saint. "When she's finished amusing herself, she'll tell us why my time's being wasted here at all. I didn't fall through a trapdoor in the hall, I wasn't electrocuted when I touched the banister rail, no mechanical gadget shot out of the wall and hit me over the head when I trod on the thirteenth stair. I wasn't shot by a spring gun on the way up. Where's your ingenuity?"

"Saint——"

"Of course, your father was English. Did you get your accent from him or from the talkies?"

He was enjoying himself. She was forced to the exasper­ating realization that he was playing with her, as if he were making a game of the encounter for his own secret satisfaction. At the least sign of resentment she gave, he registered the scoring of a point to himself as unmistak­ably as if he had chalked it up on a board.

"By the way," Simon said, "you really must stop an­noying Essenden. He came in to see us the other day, and he was most upset. Remember that his nerves aren't as strong as mine. If you murdered him, for instance, I couldn't promise you that he wouldn't be really seriously annoyed."

"Whether I'm responsible for any shocks that Essenden's had, or not," said the girl calmly, "is still waiting to be proved."

"I don't expect it will wait very long," said the Saint comfortably. "You amateur crooks are never very clever."