Mr. Teal took the bag from the Saint's hand and opened it. He sniffed, reminding himself of the Assistant Commissioner.
'That's a great story,' he said.
'It's a swell story,' said the Saint quietly. 'And it'll keep the Home Office guessing for a while. Remember that I'm a reformed character now, so far as the public are concerned, and any nasty suspicions you may have are like the flowers that bloom in the spring. They have nothing to do with the case My reputation is as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps, as I admitted, we have been rash. The magistrate might rebuke me. He might even be rude.' The Saint sighed. 'Well, Claud, if you feel you must expose me to that tragic humiliation-if you must let the newspapers tell of the magistrate's severe criticism --'
'I don't want to hear any more of that,' barked the detective.
'Just a word-picture,' explained the Saint apologetically.
Teal bit down forcefully on his chewing gum. He knew that the Saint was right-knew that the last useful word on the subject had been uttered-and the clear blue mocking eyes of the smiling Saint told him that Simon Templar also knew. The knowledge went down into Teal's stomach like gall, but in the days gone by he had learned a certain fatalistic wisdom.
And' this time, for the first time in their long duel, the honours were fairly even.
'If you're quite satisfied,' murmured the Saint persuasively, 'Peter and I have a date for lunch with a beautiful lady.'
'That's your own business,' said Mr. Teal with all the restraint of which he was capable.
He turned his broad back on them and moved over to the bed, where his assistant was wrestling with the knots that held the empurpled Mr. Lamantia; and Simon winked at Peter Quentin and removed himself from the table. They Sauntered unopposed to the door; and from there, without a shadow on his face, Simon turned back for his irrepressibly gay farewell. 'Send my medal along in the mail, Claud,' he said.
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