Saintly smile. The tanned, rakish contours of that lean face, cleared now from their coating of dust and dirt, were more reckless than he had ever seen them before. The black hair was brushed back in one smooth swashbuckling sweep. No one else in the world could have been so steady-nerved and at ease, so trim and immaculate after the rough handling of his clothes, so alive with the laughing promise of danger, so careless and debonair in every way. The Saint was going to his destiny.
'You take the corridor,' he said. 'Stand outside the door and listen. Come in as soon as you hear my voice.'
'Right.'
Monty walked away.
Simon Templar drew at his cigarette again, gazing back the way Monty had gone. He was still smiling.
Then he turned back to the office. He gave it one more glance round to make certain that everything was in order—policemen securely bound, telephone disconnected, windows barred. He went rapidly through the drawers of the desks, taking over a bunch of keys and a couple of spare automatics. Then he went to the door of the charge room.
With his ear pressed to the panels, he could make words out of the murmur that he had heard before. The conversation was in English—he heard Prince Rudolf's silkily faultless accent, commanding the scene as interpreter,
'Would it not be unusual, Miss Holm, if our friend showed no interest in your whereabouts?'
Then Patricia's unfaltering stone-wall:
'I really don't know.'
'And yet you insist that he had made no arrangements about meeting you again.'
'He isn't a nursemaid.'
'But, my dear lady! You must remember that we have met before. I have had my experience of the esteem in which Mr. Templar holds you. Are we to understand that he has transferred his affections elsewhere? I must confess I had heard rumours——'
'As a matter of fact,' said Patricia calmly, 'we did quarrel.'
'Ah! And was it because of another woman?'
'No.'
'Will you tell us the reason?'
'Certainly. He said you were a slimy baboon, and I told him I wouldn't have him insulting baboons.'
A guttural voice broke in with a rattle of short-tempered German. Prince Rudolf replied soothingly; then he spoke again in English, imperturbably as ever, but with the suave malignity razoring even more clearly through his voice.
'Miss Holm, you will be unwise to attempt to imitate your —er—friend's celebrated gift of repartee. Perhaps you have not yet realized the seriousness of your position. You are charged with being an accessory to three crimes. It would be a pity for you to waste your beauty in prison.'
'Is that so?'
'I am instructed to tell you that there are two ways of turning State's Evidence, and only one of them is voluntary—or pleasant. One can be—persuaded.'
There was a brief silence; and then another voice entered the discussion with the confidence of its own personality. It was Nina Walden's.
'Now you're getting interesting, Prince,' she remarked. 'That'll make a grand story at the trial. It'll be front page stuff. 'Crown Prince Practises Third Degree—Lady Killer In Real Life—Royal Exile Retains Torture Chamber!' Say, wait till I get this all down!'
'Miss Walden, I should advise you——'
'I didn't ask for advice,' said the American girl coldly. 'I'm here as a reporter. If it's your job to find three men to bully a woman, it's my job to tell the world.'
There was another silence.
Then the German officer muttered something vicious and impatient. Simon heard a faint gasp—then the smack of a flat palm and a startled oath.
He turned the handle and kicked open the door.
