The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

'Thanks very much. I shall expect you at the same time. Good-bye.'

Simon shook the doctor warmly by the hand, swept him briskly into the waiting elevator, and watched him sink down­wards out of view.

Then he went back to the room, poured out a glass of water, and sat down in a chair by the bedside. The patient was sleeping easily; and Simon, after a glance at his watch, pre­pared to await the natural working-off of the drug.

A quarter of an hour later he was extinguishing a cigarette when the patient stirred and groaned. A thin hand crawled up to the bare throat, and the man's head rolled sideways with his eyelids flickering. As Simon bent over him, a husky whisper of a word came through the relaxed lips.

'Acqua. . . .'

'Sure thing, brother.' Simon propped up the man's head and put the glass to his mouth.

'Mille grazie.'

'Prego.'

Presently the man sank back again. And then his eyes opened, and focused on the Saint.

For a number of seconds there was not the faintest glimmer of understanding in the eyes: they stared at and through their object like the eyes of a blind man. And then, slowly, they widened into round pools of shuddering horror, and the Italian shrank away with a thin cry rattling in his throat.

Simon gripped his arm and smiled.

'Non tema. Sono un amico.'

It was some time before he was able to calm the man into a dully incredulous quietness; but he won belief before he had finished, and at last the Italian sank back among the pillows and was silent.

Simon mopped his brow and fished out his cigarette-case.

And then the man spoke again, still weakly, but in a different voice.

'Quanti ne abbiamo quest' oggi?'

'Eil due ottobre.'

There was a pause.

'Vuol favorire di dirmi il suo nome?'

'Templar—Simon Templar.'

There was another pause. And then the man rolled over and looked at the Saint again. And he spoke in almost perfect English.

'I have heard of you. You were called——'

'Many things. But that was a long time ago.'

'How did you find me?'

'Well-—I rather think that you found me.'

The Italian passed a hand across his eyes.

'I remember now. I was running. I fell down. Someone caught me. . . .' Suddenly he clutched the Saint's wrist. 'Did you see—him?'

'Your gentleman friend?' murmured Simon lightly. 'Sure I did. He also saw me, but not soon enough. Yes, we certainly met.'

The grip of the trembling fingers loosened slowly, and the man lay still, breathing jerkily through his nose.

'Voglia scusarmi,' he said at length. 'Mi vergogno.'

'Non ne val la pena.'

'It is as if I had  awoken from a terrible dream. Even now——' The Italian looked down at the bandages that swathed the whole of the upper part of his body, and shivered uncontrollably. 'Did you put on these?' he asked.

'No—a doctor did that.'

The man looked round the room.

'And this ——?'