The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

"I hope it will be a lesson to you," he said solemnly. "You must be more careful about the company you keep. Oh, and thanks for helping me to get Harry," said the Saint incidentally. "What made you do that?"

She looked at him.

"I thought it might go a little way towards settling the debt."

"So that we could start fighting again—all square? . . . Yes, I should think we can call it quits."

"I suppose you'd like to take my gun?"

"Please."

She was fumbling in her bag, and the Saint was not watching her. He was smoking his cigarette and beaming with an infuriating smugness at Harry Donnell. About two seconds ago, his own weird intuition had raised an eyelid and wrinkled a thin hairline of clairvoyant light across his brain; and he knew exactly what was going to happen. There was just one little thing left that had to happen before the adventure took the twist that it had always been destined to take. And the Saint was not bothered about it at all, for he had his immoral views on these matters of private business. He had taken no further notice of Weald since he had dropped him to the floor. He had not even troubled to search Weald's pockets. And when he turned his head at the sound of the shot, he saw the automatic half-out of Weald's pocket, and the man lying still, and turned again to smile at another gun.

"Don't move," said Jill Trelawney quietly, and the Saint shook his head.

"Jill, you really mustn't commit murder in the presence of respectable policemen. If it happens again——"

"Never mind that," said the girl curtly.

"Oh, but I do," said the Saint. "May I smoke, or would you prefer to dance?"

The girl leaned against the wall, one hand on her hip, and the shining little nickelled automatic in the other.

"Your nerves are good, Simon Templar," she remarked coolly.

"I can say the same for yours."

She regarded him with a certain grim amusement.

"I suppose," she said, "it wouldn't be any use pleading that I shot Weald to save trouble? You can see that he was drawing when I fired. And saving the life of a valu­able detective. . . . Would it be any use?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," answered the Saint, in the same tone. "You see, I've got a gun myself, and there wasn't really any call for you to butt in. You just had to say 'Oi!'—and I would have done the work. Besides, Harry would just love to be a witness for the Crown—wouldn't you, Harry?"

He saw the venomous darkening of Donnell's eyes, and laughed.

"I'm sure you would, Harry—being the four-flushing skunk you are."