The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

Stephen Weald felt cautious.

'Mr. Weald is a friend of mine,' said the girl, 'and I'd be obliged if you'd refrain from insulting him in my house.'

'Anything to oblige,' said the Saint affably. 'I apolo­gize.'

And he contrived to make a second insult of the apol­ogy.

The girl had to call up all her resources of self-control to preserve an outward calm. Inwardly she felt all the fury that the Saint had aroused the night before boiling up afresh.

'I wonder,' she said, with a strained evenness, 'why nobody's ever murdered you, Simon Templar?'

'People have tried,' the Saint said mildly. 'It's never quite succeeded, somehow. But there's still hope.'

He seemed to enjoy the thought. It was quite clear that his detestableness was no unfortunate trick of manner. It was too offensively deliberate. He had brought discour­tesy in all its branches to a fine art, and he ladled out his masterpieces with no uncertain enthusiasm.

'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