“My dear Mike!” he protested aggrievedly. “Trust my intelligence if nothing else!” He spread his hands widely. “What possible reason could I have to wish him harm?”
“A very good reason indeed, Doctor,” drawled the Saint.
Both men’s eyes jerked to the open doorway.
Simon Templar stood there, the automatic in his hand held with deceptive negligence.
“The Saint!” Spangler got out.
An unhealthy flush suffused his florid face and his hands dropped to his lap behind the desk.
“Yes, gentlemen,” Simon Templar smiled. “However, you’ll notice this little gadget I’m holding is not a harp. Hands on the desk, please, Doc.”
Spangler obeyed slowly, the habitual good humour on his face distorted into a parody of itself.
Grady found his voice.
“What’s this?” he rasped cholerically. “Are you following me around?”