Mr Uniatz's penetrating accents were too peremptory for that to have been convincing. Simon swallowed, and took hold of himself with the strength of despair.
'I don't know, Hoppy,' he said bravely. 'How do you feel ?'
'I feel fine, boss. I just t'ought it might be a good place.'
'It might be,' Simon conceded feverishly.
'Dat was a swell idea of yours, boss,' said Mr Uniatz, hitching up his bottle.
Simon took hold of the back of a chair for support.
'Oh, not at all,' he said faintly. 'It's nothing to do with me.'
Hoppy looked puzzled.
'Sure, you t'ought of it foist, boss,' he insisted generously. 'Ya said to me, de nex time I should take de bottle away some place an' lock myself up wit' it. So I t'ought I might take dis one in de terlet. I just t'ought it might be a good place,' said Mr Uniatz, rounding off the resume of his train of thought.
'Sit down!' said the Saint, with paralysing ferocity.
Mr Uniatz lowered himself back on to his hams with an expression of pained mystification, and Simon turned to the others.
'Excuse us, won't you ?' he said brightly. 'Hoppy's made a sort of bet with himself about something, and he has a rather one-track mind.'
Forrest glared at him coldly. Rosemary half put on a gracious smile, and took it off again. Dr Quintus almost bowed, with his mouth open. There was a lot of silence, in which Simon could feel the air prickling with pardonable speculations on his sanity. Every other reaction that he had been deliberately building up to provoke had had time to disperse itself under cover of the two consecutive interruptions. The spell was shattered, and he was back again where he began. He knew it, and resignedly slid into small talk that might yet lead to another opening.
'I heard that your father had a nasty motor accident, Miss Chase,' he said.
'Yes.'
The brief monosyllable offered nothing but the baldest affirmation; but her eyes were fixed on him with an expression that he tried unavailingly to read.
'I hope he wasn't badly hurt?'
'Quite badly burned,' rumbled the doctor. 'The car caught fire, you know. But fortunately his life isn't in danger. In fact, he would probably have escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises if he hadn't made such heroic efforts to save his secretary, who was trapped in the wreckage.'
'I read something about it,' lied the Saint. 'He was burned to death, wasn't he ? What was his name now——'
'Bertrand Tamblin.'
'Oh, yes. Of course.'
Simon took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. He looked at the girl. His brain was still working at fighting pitch; but his manner was quite casual and disarming now— the unruffled conversational manner of an accepted friend discussing a minor matter of mutual interest.
'I just remembered something you said to the sergeant a little while ago, Miss Chase—about your having noticed that Nora Prescott seemed to be rather under a strain since Tamblin was killed.'
She looked
