The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

'Your nerves are good, Templar!' she said through her teeth.

He appeared to consider the suggestion quite seriously.

'They've never troubled me. But that didn't require nerves. Another time I shall be more careful. This time, you hadn't had long enough to muster up the resolution to shoot. It wants a good bit of resolution to kill your first man in cold blood. But when you've thought it over . . . Yes, I think I shall be careful next time.'

'You'd better!' snarled Weald shakily.

The Saint noticed his existence.

'You spoke?'

'I said you'd better be careful—next time!'

'Did you?' drawled the Saint.

He disappeared from the window, but the illusion that he had gone was soon dispelled. The door opened, and Simon Templar stood with one foot on the running board.

'Get out of that car!'

'I'm damned if I will——'

'You're damned, anyway. Come out!'

He reached in, caught Weald by the collar, and jerked him out into the road with one swift heave.

'Stephen Weald, dope trafficker, blackmailer, and con­fidence man—so much for you!'

The Saint's hand shot out, fastened on one of the ends of Weald's immaculate bow tie, pulled. . . . That would have been enough at any time, the simplest gesture of contemptuous challenge; but the Saint invested it with a superbly assured insolence that had to be seen to be be­lieved. For a moment Weald seemed stupefied. Then he lashed out, white-lipped, with both fists. . . .

The Saint picked him out of the ditch and tumbled him back into the car.

'Next?'

'If you want a fight—' began Budd; and once again the girl stopped him.

'You mustn't annoy Mr. Templar,' she said withering­ly. 'Mr. Templar's a very brave man—with his posse waiting for him up the road.'

The Saint raised his eyebrows.

'Still that story?' he protested. 'How can I convince you?'

'Don't bother to try,' she answered. 'But if you'd like to come to 97, Belgrave Street, at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, we'll be there.'

'So shall I,' said the Saint cheerfully. 'And I give you my word of honour I shall come alone.'

He held her eyes for a moment, and then he was gone; but a few seconds later he was back again as the self-starter burred under her foot.

'By the way,' he said calmly, 'I have to warn you that you'll receive a summons for standing here all this time with your lights out. Sorry, I'm sure.'

He stood by the side of the road and watched the lights of the car out of sight. Perhaps he was laughing. Perhaps he was not laughing. Certainly he was amused. For the Saint, in his day, had made many enemies and many friends; yet he could recall no enemy that he had made for whom he felt such an instinctive friendliness. That he had gone out of his way to make himself particularly un­pleasant to her was his very own business . . .