15 The Saint in New York

'So it's robbery, eh?' grated Nather; and the Saint thought he could detect a note of relief in the words.

He shook his head rather sadly, turning wide innocent eyes on his victim.

'My dear Judge—you wrong me, I merely mentioned that I was struggling against temptation. This really started to be just a sociable interview. I want to know where you were born and why, and what penitentiary you graduated from, and what you think about disarmament, and whether your face was always so repulsive or if somebody trod on it. I wasn't thinking of stealing anything.'

His gaze reverted to the sheaf of bills, meditatively, as though the thought was nevertheless penetrating slowly into his mind, against his will; and the judge moistened his dry lips.

'What is all this nonsense?' he croaked.

'Just a little friendly call.' Simon poked at the bills again, wistfully. It was clear that the idea which Nather had dragged in was gaining ground. 'You and your packet of berries— me and my little effort at housebreaking. On second thoughts,' said the Saint, reaching a decision with apparent reluctance, 'I am afraid I shall have to borrow these. Just sitting and looking at them like this is getting me all worked up.'

Nather stiffened up in his chair, his flabby hands curling up into lumpish fists; but the gun in the Saint's hand never wavered from the even keel that held it centred on the help­less judge like a finger of fate. Nather's small eyes flickered like burning agates as the Saint gathered up the stack of notes with a sweeping gesture and dropped them into his pocket; but he did not try to challenge the threat of the .38 Colt that hovered a scanty yard from his midriff. His impotent wrath exploded in a staccato clip of words that rasped gropingly through the stillness.

'Damn you—I'll see that you don't get away with this!'

'I believe you would,' agreed Simon amiably. 'I admit that it isn't particularly tactful of me to do things like this to you, especially in this man's city. It's a pity you don't feel sociable. We might have had a lovely evening together, and then if I ever got caught and brought up in your court you'd burst into tears and direct the jury to acquit me—just like you'd have done with Jack Irboll eventually, if he hadn't had such a tragic accident. But I suppose one can't have everything. . . . . Never mind. Tell me how much I've borrowed and I'll give you a receipt.'

The pallor was gone from Nather's cheeks, giving place to a savage flush. A globule of perspiration trickled down his cheek and hung quivering at the side of his jaw.

'There were twenty thousand dollars there,' he stated hoarsely.

The Saint raised his eyebrows.

'Not so bad,' he drawled quietly, 'for blood money.'

Nather's head snapped up, and a fleeting panic widened the irises of his eyes; but he said nothing. And the Saint smiled again.

'Pardon me. In the excitement of the moment, and all that sort of thing, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm afraid I've had you at a disadvantage. My name is Templar— Simon Templar'—he caught the flash of stark hypnotic fear that blanched the big man's lips, and grinned even more gently. 'You may have heard of me. I am the Saint.'

A tremor went over the man's throat, as he swallowed me­chanically out of a parched mouth. He spoke between twitch­ing lips.

'You're the man who sent Irboll that note.'

'And killed him,' said the Saint quietly. The lilt of banter was lingering only in the deepest undertones of his voice— the surface of it was as smooth and cold as a shaft of polished ice. 'Don't forget that, Nather. You let him out—and I killed him.'

The judge stirred in his chair, a movement that was no more than the uncontrollable reaction of nerves strained be­yond the limits of their strength. His mouth shaped an almost inaudible sentence.

'What do you want?'

'Well, I thought we might have a little chat.' Simon's foot swung again, in that easy, untroubled