The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

He had not moved from the table, and his right hand, holding Donnell's revolver, still rested loosely on his knee.

"You aren't going to be troublesome, Templar?" asked the girl gently, and Simon shrugged.

"You don't get me, Jill. Personally, I'm never trouble­some." He held her eyes. "Others may be," he said.

The silence after he spoke was significant; and the girl listened on. And she also heard, outside, the sound of heavy hurrying footsteps on the stairs.

"Excuse me," said the Saint.

He stepped quickly to the door, and turned the key in the lock. Then he picked the table up and jammed it into the defense for ballast, with one edge under the handle of the door and the other slanting into the floor.

"That'll hold Donnell's boys for three or four minutes," he said.

She smiled.

"While I slip out through the tunnel?"

"While we slip out through the tunnel."

He saw the perplexity that narrowed her eyes, the hesitant parting of her lips, but he saw these things only in a sidelong glimpse as he crossed to the side of Harry Donnell. And he saw the vindictive resignation that twisted Donnell's mouth, and laughed.

"Sorry to trouble you again," said the Saint.

His fist shot up like the hoof of a plunging cayuse. But this time the Saint had had one essential fraction of a second more in which to meditate his manoeuvre—and that made all the difference in the world. And this time Donnell went down and stayed down in a peaceful sleep.

"Which is O. K.," drawled the Saint, after one profes­sional glance at the sleeper.

He turned briskly.

"Are you all set for the fade-away, Jill? Want to powder your nose or anything first?"

She was still staring at him. The new atmosphere that had crept into his personality from the moment of his first swipe at Donnell's jaw had grown up like the strengthening light of an incredible dawn, and the intervening interlude had merely provided circumstances to shape its course without altering its temper in the least. And the gun that she had been levelling at him half the time had made no difference at all.

"Aren't you going to try to arrest me?" she asked, with a faint rasp of contempt laid like the thinnest veneer on the bewildering beginnings of preposterous understand­ing that lay beneath.

And Simon Templar smiled at her.