As Nelson turned to take Simon’s hand, the Saint caught a glimpse of Connie’s eyes over his shoulder, strained and pleading. So she was afraid he’d spill the beans about her visit to his apartment that morning.
“I’m afraid you came at rather a difficult moment,” she was saying with a nervous laugh.
“If that character ever comes back again,” Steve Nelson said deliberately, “he’ll lose more than just a coat.” He grinned. “Glad to know you, Saint. I’ve sure heard a lot about you. Won’t you come in?”
Steve Nelson’s apartment inside was considerably more attractive than the conservative exterior of the landing seemed to indicate. Simon looked about him approvingly.
“Do sit down, won’t you?” Connie invited, and he could feel her nervousness like a secret between them.
The Saint sat down, stretching his long legs luxuriously as he fished for his cigarettes.
Nelson dropped into a chair across the table and pushed a little wooden donkey towards him. He pumped its tail and a cigarette flopped out of its mouth into the Saint’s lap.
Simon retrieved it admiringly.
“Quite a gadget,” he remarked easily. “Too bad you haven’t got one that tosses out undesirable guests with equal facility.”
“That’s one thing I’d rather do by hand,” Nelson said. “You know him, eh?”