“It’s a police matter. I feel that I can do more good in my own way... Of course, if I could be of any use—”
Mrs Wingate said abruptly, “Why, you’re the blind beggar!”
This time the Saint was naturally watching Elliott. He saw blank startled astonishment leap into the man’s eyes. He held his own reflexes frozen under an unmoving mask of bronze and waited, while Mrs Laura Wingate babbled on.
“I don’t understand. I’m sure I can’t be mistaken. But... but... I never forget a face, Mr Templar. What in the world—”
Elliott’s hand moved towards the watch-chain stretched across his vest.
“What do you mean, Laura?”
“I’m sure I must be making a fool of myself. But, Stephen, you know I’ve got a photographic memory. I think you were with me, too... Yesterday! Mr Templar—”
The coin had come down and bedded itself flatly in hot solder. There wasn’t even a theoretical chance any more of its landing on its edge. Its verdict had been delivered with more finality even than the Saint had played for. But he had always been a sucker for the fast showdown, the cards on the table and the hell with complicated stratagems...
He relaxed with an infinitude of relaxation, and smiled at Laura Wingate with a complete happiness that could only stem from that.
“She’s perfectly right,” he said. “I often travel incognito. As a matter of fact, I was trying to get some information about the King’s organisation. To do that I had to pose as a beggar, I hope you’ll keep it confidential.”