15 The Saint in New York

'Did you hear what I told you? The Big Fellow says to lay off him.'

'But—but——' Maxie was floundering in a bottomless morass of incredulity that had taken the feet from under him.'But he killed Joe,' he managed, in a sudden gasp.

The girl had advanced coolly until she was at his side. She gazed across at the limp form gripped in the Saint's left arm.

'Well?'

The monosyllable dropped from her lips with a pellucid serenity that was void of the faintest tinge of interest She did not care what had happened to Joe. She was at a loss to find any connection whatsoever between his death and the object of her arrival. Maxie struggled for speech.

And the Saint realized that Joe's automatic was still on the ground close by, where it had fallen.

His arm was beginning to ache with the dead weight on it, and he heaved the body up and got a fresh grip while his keen eyes probed the darkness. There was a throbbing pain growing up in his wound that turned to a sharp twinge in his chest every time he breathed, but he scarcely noticed the discomfort Presently he found a dull gleam of metal in the grass some­where to his left front.

He edged himself towards it, inch by inch, with infinite pa­tience. Every instinct urged him to drop his encumbering load and make a swift, desperate dive for it, but he knew that the gamble would have been hopelessly against him. With every muscle held relentlessly in check, he worked himself across the intervening space with movements so smooth and minute that they could never have been noticed. There was only about a yard and a half to go, but it might have been seven miles. And at last Maxie recovered his voice.

'What does the Big Fellow want us to do?' he demanded harshly. 'Kiss him?'

'The Big Fellow says to let him go.'

The dull gleam of metal was only six inches away then. Si­mon extended a cautious toe, touched it here and there, drew it gently towards him. It was the gun he was looking for. His right arm was still useless; but if he could drop Joe and dive for it with his left—the instant Maxie's attention was dis­tracted, as it must be soon. . . .

'Let him go?' Maxie's eyes were wild, his mouth twisted. 'Like hell I'll let him go! You must be nuts. He killed Joe.' Maxie's forearm stiffened, and the gun in his hand moved slightly. 'You're too late, Fay—we'd done the job before you got here. This is how we let him go, the dirty double-cross­ing ——'

'Don't be a fool!'

In a flash the girl's hands were on his wrist, dragging his arm down; and in that moment the Saint had his chance. With a swift jerk of his sound shoulder he flung the body of his shield away, well away to one side, and his hand plunged downwards to the automatic that he was still marking with his toe. His fingers closed on the butt, and he straightened up again with it in his hand.

'I think that's pretty good advice, Maxie,' he said gently.

There was a trace of the old Saintly lilt in his voice, a lilt of triumphant mockery that was born in the surge of new power and confidence which went through him at the feel of gun metal in his hands again. Maxie stared at him frozenly, with his right arm still stretched downwards in the girl's grasp, and the muzzle of his automatic pointed uselessly into the ground. Simon's finger itched on the trigger. He had sworn to be with­out mercy. The indifference of his executioners had hardened the last dregs of pity out of his heart.

'Wasn't it two minutes that we had to say our prayers, Maxie?' he whispered.

The gunman glared at him with dilated eyes. All at once, in a physical quiver of comprehension, he seemed to take in the situation—that the Saint was alive and free and the tables were turned. With a foul oath, heedless of the menace of the Saint's automatic, he broke loose from the girl with a savage fling of his arm and brought up his gun.

Simon's forefinger tightened on the trigger—once. Maxie's gun was never fired. His arms flew wide, and his head snapped back. For one swaying moment he stared at the Saint with all the furies of hell concentrated in his flaming eyes; and then a dull glaze crept over his eyeballs and the fires died out. His head sagged forward as if he were tired; his knees buckled, and he pitched headlong to the ground.

Simon gazed down at the two sprawled figures for a second or two in silence, while the jagged ice melted out of his eyes without softening their expression. A faint gesture of repug­nance