Elliott said, “Notorious is perhaps the wrong word, Laura. And, if I may say so, the Saint’s charities are not exactly in line with what we’re trying to do.”
Mrs Wingate plunged on excitedly, as if she had not even heard him.
“And you, Miss Varing — of course. You see, we try to make the unfortunates realise something of the higher things. It gives them incentive. We arrange to put on little entertainments for them sometimes. Now tomorrow night there’s one at the Elliott Hotel—”
“In the boiler-room,” Elliott said with dry humour. “You mustn’t give the impression that it’s like the Drake.”
“But it’s an enormous room,” Mrs Wingate went on, no whit dashed. “There’ll be songs and coffee and... and... speeches, and it would be simply wonderful if you both could drop in for just a few moments. If you could do a reading, Miss Varing, and Mr Templar, if you, could... ah...”
“Now, just what could I do?” Simon asked thoughtfully. “A lecture on safe-cracking would hardly be quite the thing.”
“A speech, perhaps, showing that crime does not pay?” Elliott seemed in earnest, but the Saint could not be sure.
Mrs Wingate clasped her hands in front of her bust.
“At eight-thirty? We would so appreciate it!”
“I’m afraid eight-thirty is my curtain time,” Monica said, with an excellent air of regret. “Otherwise I’d have loved it.”