“After all,” the Saint observed casually, “it’s not considered ethical for a matchmaker to hold a financial interest in any of his contestants — or at least a major share — so naturally Mr Grady would avoid that sort of thing. Especially where a championship bout was concerned.”
Connie Grady looked up suddenly.
“I don’t want Steve to be one of those contestants!” she burst out, her emerald eyes misting. She turned away. “I sound... ridiculous, don’t I? I... I wouldn’t dream of asking this of anyone else in the world. You... you’re the only person I could possibly imagine being capable of... somehow arranging it so that the fight would never happen.”
“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Pat asked curiously. “Do you think the Saint could persuade Nelson not to fight?”
Connie flashed her a startled glance.
“Oh, no!” she said. “If he knew I’d come here to ask Mr Templar — he’d never forgive me.” She turned to Simon pleadingly. ‘‘‘There must be some — other way I can’t say how. I only know that you’ve done things — in the past — that were like miracles... Daddy has told me about — some of your adventures.”
“Well, well,” said Patricia admiringly. “Simon Templar, the Paul Bunyan of modern crime. Have you another miracle up your sleeve?”
Then she caught the stricken look on Connie’s face and her laughter softened. She put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and looked up at the Saint questioningly.
“Simon, what do you think?”
“I think,” said the Saint, “that we ought to go on with breakfast before it all gets cold, or Hoppy eats it.”