He watched while the taping of the other prisoners' wrists was completed; then he started exploring doors. He found one that communicated with the bedroom—a place of glass and natural woods and pale blue sheets and pillows, with a pale blue bathroom beyond it that gave an infinitesimally humorous shift to the alignment of his eyebrows. He left the door open and signed to Peter.
'Bring the menagerie in here,' he said.
Dumaire, Pietri and Bravache lurched sullenly in, urged on by the unarguable prodding of gun muzzles.
On his way in after them, Hoppy Uniatz stopped at the door. It is true, as has perhaps already been made superfluously clear, that there were situations in which the light of intelligence failed to coruscate on Mr Uniatz' ivorine brow; it is no less true that in the vasty oceans of philosophy and abstract Thought he wandered like a rudderless barque at the mercy of unpredictable winds; but in his own element he was immune to the distractions that might have afflicted lesser men, and his mental processes became invested with the simplicity of true greatness.
'Boss,' said Mr Uniatz, with the placidity of a mahatma approaching the settlement of an overdue grocer's bill, 'I t'ink ya better gimme dem shells.'
'What shells?' asked the Saint hazily.
'De shells,' explained Mr Uniatz, who was now flourishing Pietri's silenced revolver in addition to his own beloved Betsy, 'you take outa de dumb cannon.'
Simon blinked.
'What for?'
'Dey don't make no ners,' explained Mr Uniatz, with a slight perplexity for such slowness on the uptake, 'when we are giving dese guys de woiks.'
The Saint swallowed.
'I'll give them to you when you need them,' he said and closed the door hastily on Mr Uniatz' back.
He went back and sat on the arm of a chair in front of Lady Valerie. He wanted to smile, but he had too many other things on his mind that were not smiling matters. The recent episode which had been absorbing all his nervous and intellectual energy was over, and his brain was moving on again with restless efficiency. It had not reached an end, but only a fresh beginning.
She had regained most of her composure. Her face was repaired, and she had lighted a cigarette herself. He had to admit that she possessed amazing recuperative powers. There was a naughty gleam in her eyes that would have amused him at any other time.
'You always seem to be catching me in these boudoir moments, don't you ?' she said, smoothing her flimsy negligee. 'I mean, first I was in my nightie at the fire, and then now. It must be fate, or something. The only trouble is, there won't be any thrills left when we get really friendly. ... Of course I suppose I ought to thank you for rescuing me,' she went on hurriedly. 'Thanks very much, darling. It was sweet of you.'
'Don't mention it,' he said graciously. 'It's been a pleasure. You must call me again any time you want a helping hand.'
He got up restlessly, poured himself out a drink and sat down again.
'Don't you think you'd better tell me what it's all about ?' he said abruptly. 'I could live through an explanation of this cloakroom-ticket gag.'
'Oh, that,' she said. She trimmed the end of her cigarette. 'Well, you see, they thought I'd got a cloakroom ticket they wanted, so they came to look for it. That's all.'
'It isn't anything like all,' he said bluntly. 'Why go on holding out on me? You've got something they want— probably some papers that Kennet gave you. You parked them in a cloakroom somewhere, and these birds knew it and wanted the ticket. Or do
