Simon moved his head slowly, with the helpless searching motion of the blind.
“I’m new in town,” he whined. “Nobody told—”
“The head guy is the King of the Beggars.” It sounded unreal in the mechanical hubbub of the Chicago street. It belonged in the time of François Villon, or in the lands of the Arabian Nights. Yet the fantastic title came easily from the thin, twisted lips of the blond man, but without even the superficial glamour of those periods. In terms of today it was as coldly sinister as a levelled gun-barrel. Simon had a moment’s fastidious, cat-like withdrawal from that momentary evil, but it was purely an inward motion. To all appearances he was still the same — a blind beggar, a little frightened now, and very unsure of himself.
Even his voice was high-pitched and hesitant.
“I’ve... heard of him. Yes, sir. I’ve heard of him.”
The blond man said, “Well, the King sent me especially to invite you to join the Society.”
“But suppose I don’t—”
“Suit yourself. The guy who had this corner before you didn’t want to join, either. So?”
The Saint said nothing. Presently, very slowly, he nodded.
“Smart boy,” the blond man said. “I’ll pick you up at ten tonight, right here.”