“Oh, goodness,” Mrs Wingate said breathlessly. “How romantic!”
Stephen Elliott maintained his mildly worried expression.
“Since we’ve stumbled on something that’s apparently secret,” he said temperately, “I suspect we’d better not ask any more questions. If Mr Templar really has taken up the chase, and if his quarry should learn about it, it might be extremely dangerous for him. Perhaps even” — he shot the Saint a deliberate measuring glance — “fatal.”
“I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul,” Mrs Wingate protested. “I just wish I weren’t so curious!”
Elliott’s attention remained on the Saint.
“In fact,” he said, “I’m not at all sure that it’s wise for you to go on with this project, even now. From what little I have heard, the King of the Beggars protects his absolute sovereignty as ruthlessly as any despot. I have a great admiration for your exploits, and I should hate to see anything happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Simon said. “I’ve a great admiration for yours.”
Elliott hesitated, staring.
“Scarcely in the same category—”
“I mean your charities. The Elliott Hotel, for example.”