The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

"I've still some more news to give you, Jill."

There was a certain mockery in the eyes that returned his gaze.

"Do you still want to give it?"

"Why, yes," said the Saint innocently. "Why not?"

Weald spoke behind him.

"We're listening, Templar. Don't move too suddenly, because I might think you were going to put up a fight."

The Saint turned slowly and glanced down at the gun in Weald's hand.

"Oh, that! Wonderful how science helps you boys all along the line. And a silencer, too. Do you know, I always thought those things were only used in stories written for little boys?"

"It's good enough for me."

"I couldn't think of anything that wouldn't be too good for you," said the Saint. "Except, perhaps, a really muti­nous sewer." Then he turned round again. "Do you know a man named Donnell, Jill?"

"Very well."

"Then you'd better go ring him up and tell him good­bye. He's going to Dartmoor for a long holiday, and he mightn't remember you when he comes out."

She laughed.

"The police in Birmingham have been saying things like that about Harry Donnell for the last two years, and they've never taken him."

"Possibly," said the Saint in his modest way. "But this time the police of Birmingham aren't concerned."

"Then who's going to take him?"

Simon smoothed his hair.

"I am."

Pinky Budd chuckled throatily.

"Not 'arf, you ain't!"

"Not 'arf, I ain't," agreed the Saint courteously.

"May I ask," said the girl, "how you think you're going to Birmingham?"

"By train."

"After you leave here?"

"After I leave here."

"D'you think you're leaving?" interjected Weald.

"I'm sure of it," said the Saint calmly. "Slinky Dyson will let me out. He's an old friend of mine."

The girl opened the door. Dyson was outside.

"Here's your friend the Saint," she said.

"Hullo, Slinky," said the Saint. "How's the eye?"

Dyson slouched into the room.

"Search him," ordered Weald.

Dyson obeyed, doing the job with ungentle hands. Simon made no resistance. In the circumstances that would only have been a mediocre way of committing suicide.

"How true you run to type, Jill!" he murmured. "This is just what I was expecting. And now, of course, you'll tell me that I'm going to be kept here as your prisoner until you choose to let me go. Or are you going to lock me in the cellar and leave the hose running? That was tried once. Or perhaps you're going to ask me to join your gang. That'd be quite original."

"Sit down," snapped Weald.

Simon sat down as if he had been meaning to do so all the time.