“Congratulations,” the Saint smiled from the depths of the club chair into which he had retired, one leg slung over a leather upholstered arm. “He’ll dance at your wedding yet.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” said the girl. The rosy flush of effort that had tinted her smooth elfin features was fading to an unhappy pallor. “Oh, Steve...”
“Cheer up,” said the Saint. “He really likes him. He just guessed wrong about Steve at first and he’s too bull-headed to admit it.”
He climbed to his feet once more.
“Have lunch with us,” Steve invited eagerly. “Will you? We have a table at the Brevoort. We’re going over to your place first so I can leave my stuff, and then we—”
“Bless you, my children,” the Saint interrupted, “but I have a prior engagement, unfortunately. Some other time, perhaps.”
He lifted a hand in a debonair gesture of farewell, opened the door, and sauntered out rather abruptly before the argument could continue.
He did not mean to be rude, but he had a sudden pellucid intuition where Michael Grady had gone, and he did not want to be too far behind.
Chapter fourteen
Mike Grady sat slumped in a corner of the sofa in Doc Spangler’s study moodily chewing an unlit cigar. Spangler, his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together with injured reproach pointedly visible behind a film of charlatan good humour.