He recorked the bottle, gathered the Angel’s gloves on his lap, and savoured the drink with sybaritic enjoyment. Then he proceeded to re-examine the gloves, not that he expected them to yield any more secrets, but he had to be quite sure.
“Ya figure de mitts is loaded, boss?” Hoppy picked up one of the gloves. “Is dat why you want ’em?”
Simon considered him.
“Did you work that out all by yourself?”
He tossed the remaining glove aside and picked up his glass again. Hoppy took the glove he had thrown down and felt that one too.
“Ain’t nut’n de matter wit’ dese gloves, boss.”
The telephone rang.
It was Pat, her voice a stiletto in a silken sheath.
“Simon dear, it isn’t that I mind being abandoned like a sinking ship—”
“Darling,” said the Saint, “I’ve never been called a rat more delicately. However—”