He deliberately devoted himself to his own plate, and insisted on that matter-of-fact diversion until even Connie Grady had to follow with the others. He knew that the let-down was what she needed if she could be eased into it, and for his own part a healthy appetite was mixed with the need for an interlude of constructive thinking in approximately equal proportions. If it was obvious that Connie’s concern for Steve Nelson was absolutely real, it was no less plain to the Saint that she still hadn’t come out with everything that was on her mind.
He waited until the commonplace mechanics of eating had achieved an inevitable slackening of the tension, and then he said almost casually, “Of course, one thing we might do is shoot Barrelhouse Bilinski—”
“No, no! “ Connie gasped, but her tone was now more impatient than fearful. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I don’t want — anybody hurt.” She shook her head. “There must be something — something else you could do. You’re clever...”
Simon considered the tip of his cigarette a moment, the smoke trickling from his mouth.
“Does your father know you’re here?” he asked.
“Of course not!” The idea seemed to startle her. “I couldn’t tell him I’m trying to have the fight stopped — any more than I could tell Steve!”
“Steve is pretty good at his profession,” Simon remarked.
“Does he know how you feel about his chances against the Angel?”
“How could I tell him? I’ve tried to make him quit now — with the championship. It hasn’t done any good. He’s so sure, so confident! If he only had sense enough to be afraid, to realise!”
“Realise what?” Simon queried mildly.