He saw her settled in the booth and pulled up another chair for himself, while Mr Uniatz doled out plates of bacon and eggs and cups of coffee with hash-house dexterity.
Connie picked up her fork and tried to start, but the effort of restraint was too much. She looked full at the Saint, with the emotion unashamed on her face.
“You saw what happened,” she said, her voice small and tense. “The Angel killed a man last night... Now, do you wonder that I don’t want Steve to fight that — that gorilla?”
“I can see your point.”
“When I was talking to you last night,” she began, “I... I...”
She fumbled as if groping for the right words.
Simon passed Patricia the sugar with harlequin courtesy. She didn’t seem to see it.
She said sweetly, “Last night?”
“On the phone, after you called,” Simon elucidated smoothly. “She wanted to know what went on, too. Her father was rather upset by our little visit to the Masked Angel’s dressing-room after the fight.”
Patricia’s red mouth pursed in a sceptical “Oh!”