Meanwhile the Saint sat by the window with a pair of high-powered binoculars in his hand, staring from time to time through the lenses at the street below. Mr Uniatz did not understand this either, but he had no wish to seem uncooperative on that account.
“Boss,” he said, “maybe I should take a toin wit’ de peepers.”
Simon lowered the glasses again.
“And just what would you look for?” he inquired interestedly.
“I dunno, boss,” confessed Mr Uniatz. “But I could look.”
“You’re such a help to me,” said the Saint.
Strange emotions chased themselves across Hoppy’s unprepossessing face, not unlike those of a man who has been butted in the midriff by an invisible goat. His mouth hung open, and his small eyes had a stricken expression.
The Saint had a momentary qualm of conscience. Perhaps his sarcasm had been unduly harsh. He hastened to soften the affront to an unprecedented sensitivity.
“No kidding,” he said. “I’m going to have plenty for you to do, soon enough.”
“Boss,” Mr Uniatz said anxiously, “I think I swallered a BB.”