The narrow margin of Mr Uniatz’s brow knotted in puzzlement.
“Boss,” he said hoarsely, “ya don’t mean it was him?”
The champion’s eyes flashed to the Saint.
“What’s this about?” he clipped. “Where’d you get this?”
“From some character who paid us a call last night. We’ve been trying to find out who he was and return it to him, in case he feels undressed without it. Mike Grady admits the gun is his, but he claims you stole it from him.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Connie jumped up, her eyes flashing. “Daddy was — he wasn’t himself!” Sudden tears spilled down the curve of her cheeks. She continued with difficulty, “He... he’d been drinking too much. Steve had to take the gun away from him.”
She flung herself on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.
Steve Nelson put his arm about her shoulders.
‘‘That’s okay, baby,” he comforted, “that’s okay.”
Hoppy stirred uncomfortably, but the Saint accepted the emotional demonstration and Nelson’s uncertain glare with Indian equanimity. He was completely impersonal, completely unconfused.