'Can't you get some rest?' she asked—and he knew that he would never, never again hear such soft magic in a voice.
'If we don't find him before morning,' he said gently, 'I shall have all the time in the world to rest.'
He went back slowly into the kitchen. Chris took one look at his face and stood up.
'There's a bed upstairs for you, Simon. Why don't you lie down for a bit?'
Simon spread out his hands.
'Who'll answer the telephone?'
'I'll hear it,' Chris assured him convincingly. 'The least little thing wakes me up. Don't worry. Directly that telephone rings, I'll call you.'
The Saint hesitated. He was terribly tired, and there was no point in squandering his waning reserve of strength. There was nothing that he himself could do until the vital message came through from Fay Edwards. His helplessness, the futile inaction of it, maddened him; but there was no answer to the fact. The rest might clear his mind, restore part of his body, freshen his brain and nerves so that he would not bungle his last chance as he had bungled so much of late. Everything, in the end, would hang on his own quickness and judgment; he knew that if he failed he would have to go back to Fernack, squaring the account by the same code which had given him this one fighting break. ...
Before he had mustered the unwilling instinct to protest, he had been shepherded upstairs, his coat taken from him, his tie loosened. Once on the bed, sleep came astoundingly. His weariness had reached the point where even the dizzy whirligig of his mind could not stave off the healing fogs of unconsciousness any longer.
When he woke up there was a brilliant New York morning in the translucent sky, and Chris was standing beside his bed.
'Your call's just come, Simon.'
The Saint nodded and looked at his watch. It was just before eight o'clock. He rolled out of bed and pushed back his disordered hair, and as he did so felt the burning temperature of his forehead. His shoulder was stiffened and aching. Yet he felt better and stronger than he had been before his sleep.
'There'll be some coffee and breakfast for you as soon as you're ready,' Chris told him.
Simon smiled and stumbled downstairs to the telephone.
'I'm glad you've had a rest,' said the girl's voice.
The Saint's heart was beating in a rhythmic palpitation which he could feel against his ribs. His mouth was dry and hot, and the emptiness was trying to struggle back into his stomach.
'It's done me good,' he said. 'Give me anything to fight, and I'll lick it. What do you know, Fay?'
'Can you be at the Vandrick National Bank on Fifth Avenue at nine? I think you'll find what you want.'
His heart seemed to stand still for a second.
'I'll be there,' he said.
'I had to park the car,' she went on. 'There were too many cops looking for it after last night Can you fix something else?'
'I'll see what I can do.'
There was the good rich smell of breakfast in the air. A pot of coffee bubbled on the table, and Chris was frying eggs and bacon at the big range. The door to the backyard stood open, and through it floated the crisp invigorating tang of the Atlantic, sweeping away the last mustiness of stale smoke and wine. Simon felt magnificently hungry.
He shaved with Chris's razor, clumsily left-handed, and washed at the sink. The impact of cold water freshened him, swept away the trailing cobwebs of fatigue and heaviness. He wasn't dead yet. Inevitably, yet gradually because of the frightful hammering it had sustained, his system was working towards recovery; the resilience of his superb physique and dynamic health was turning the slow
