Patricia stood up. She kissed him.
'Be careful, boy,' she said. 'You know I look terrible in black.'
Peter Quentin finished his drink and rose. He buttoned his coat with a deep sigh.
'I suppose this is the end of our chance of a night's rest,' he said pessimistically. 'I ought to have stayed in Anford.' He saluted Patricia. 'Will you excuse Hoppy and me if we trot along to take care of the dragons while your problem child is striking attitudes in front of the heroine? We don't want anything to happen to him—it would make life so horribly quiet and peaceful.'
Simon stopped at the door.
'Just a minute,' he said. 'There may be policemen and other emissaries of the ungodly prowling around outside. We'd better not take chances. Will you call down to Sam Outrell, Pat, and tell him to meet me in the garage?'
As they rode down in the elevator he felt the springy elation of the moment spreading its intoxication through his muscles. The lucid swiftness of his mind ran on, constructing a clear objective framework of action in which he moved with unhurried precision with each step unerringly laid out a fraction of time before he reached it.
Down in the basement garage Sam Outrell, the janitor, was waiting for him when the elevator doors opened, with a look of placid expectancy on his pleasant bucolic face. He fell in at the Saint's side as Simon walked across to where the Hirondel stood waiting in its private bay.
'Goin' out on business again, sir?' he queried, with the imperturbation of many years of experience of the Saint's unlawful occasions.
'I hope so, Sam.' The Saint cocked his legs over the side while Peter and Hoppy climbed into their own seats. 'I don't want to stage a big demonstration, but you might just do a quiet job of obstructing if anyone's waiting for us. Take your own heap and follow me up the ramp, and see that you stick tight on my tail. When I wave my hand, swing across the road and stall your engine. I'll only want two or three minutes.'
The exhaust purred as he touched the starter. He pulled the Hirondel out to the foot of the ramp and held it there, warming the engine, until he saw Outrell's car behind him. Then he let in the clutch and roared up the slope, with the other car following as if it were nailed to his rear fenders.
At the top he whipped round in a screaming turn out into the narrow street that ran by the back of Cornwall House. There was a taxi parked close by the garage entrance and a small sports car with a man reading a newspaper in it standing just behind; both of them might have been innocent, but if they were it would do them no harm to be obstructed for a few minutes.
The Saint raised one hand just above his head and made a slight movement.
He heard the squeal of Sam Outrell's brakes behind him, and grinned gently to himself as he locked the wheel for another split-arch turn into Half Moon Street. The snarl of the engine rose briefly, lulled, and then settled into a steady drone as they nosed into Piccadilly, shot across the front of a belated bus and went humming down the west-ward slope towards Hyde Park Corner.
Peter Quentin settled deep into his seat and turned to Hoppy.
'I hope your insurance policies are all paid up, Hoppy,' he said.
'I ain't never had none,' said Mr Uniatz seriously. 'I seen guys what try to sell me insurance, but I t'ought dey was all chisellers.' He brooded anxiously over the idea. 'Do ya t'ink I oughta get me some, boss?'
'I'm afraid it's too late now,' said Peter encouragingly. 'But perhaps it doesn't matter. You haven't got a lot of wives and things lying around, have you?'
Mr Uniatz scratched his
