Featuring the Saint Read Free Page B

had not yet completely awoken to understanding and reprisal. And the most important thing of all was that the sudden sleep of the porter who had been other things in his time had not only demoralized the two other officials who were standing in the middle distance, but had also left the way to the exit temporarily clear.
    Simon touched the girl’s shoulder.
    “I should push along now, old dear,” he remarked, as if there were all the time in the world and nothing on earth to get excited about. “Stop a taxi outside, if you see one. I’ll be right along.”
    She looked at him with a queer expression; and then she left her chair and crossed the floor quickly. To this day she is not quite sure why she obeyed; but it is enough that she did, and the Saint felt a certain relief as he watched her go.
    Then he turned, and saw the gun in Mossiter’s hand. He laughed-it was so absurd, so utterly fantastic, even in that place. In London, that sort of thing only happens in sensational fiction. But there it was; and the Saint knew that Baldy Mossiter must have been badly upset to make such a crude break. And he laughed; and his left hand fell on Mossiter’s hand in a grip of steel, but with a movement so easy and natural that Mossiter missed the meaning of it until it was too late. The gun was pointed harmlessly down into the table, and all Mossiter’s strength could not move it.
    “You had better know me,” said Simon quietly. “I’m called the Saint.”
    Baldy Mossiter heard him, staring, and went white.
    “And you must not try to drug little girls,” said the Saint
A lot of things of no permanent importance have been mentioned in this episode; but the permanently important point of it is that Baldy Mossiter’s beautiful front teeth are now designed to his measure by a gentleman in a white coat with a collection of antediluvian magazines in his waiting room.
    3
A few moments later, the Saint strolled up into the street. A taxi was drawn up by the curb, and the Saint briefly spoke an address to the driver and stepped in.
    The girl was sitting in the far corner. Simon gave her a smile and cheerfully inspected a set of grazed knuckles. It stands to the credit of his happy disposition that he really felt at peace with the world, although the evening’s amusement represented a distinct setback to certain schemes that had been maturing in his fertile brain. As a rough-house it had had its virtues; but the truth was that the Saint had marked down the Calumet Club for something more drastic and profitable than a mere rough-house, and that idea, if it was ever to be materialized now, would have to be tackled all over again from the very beginning and a totally different angle. A couple of months of shrewd and patient reconnaissance work had gone west that night along with Baldy Mossiter’s dental apparatus, but Simon Templar was incapable of weeping over potential poultry annihilated in the egg.
    “Have a cigarette,” he suggested, producing his case, “and tell me your name.”
    “Stella Dornford.” She accepted a light, and he affected not to notice the unsteadiness of her hand. “Did you-have much trouble?”
    The Saint grinned over his match.
    “Well-hardly! I seemed to get a bit popular all at once- that was all. Nobody seemed to want me to go. There was a short argument-nothing to speak of.”
    He blew out the match and slewed round, looking through the window at the back. There was another taxi close behind, which is not extraordinary in a London street; and, hanging out of the window of the taxi behind, was a man-or the head and shoulders of one-which, to Saint’s suspicious mind, was quite extraordinary enough. But he was not particularly bothered about it at the moment, for he had directed his own driver to the Criterion, and nothing would happen there.
    “Where are we going?” asked the girl.
    “Towards coffee,” said the Saint. “Or, if you prefer it, something with more kick. Praise be to the blessed