“No,” she mouthed huskily. “No...”
“Monica,” he said.
He checked the eagerness of his stride as he reached the cot, to come up to her gently.
“It’s me,” he said. “Simon. Simon Templar.”
Her eyes sought for him as he touched her, and he could see the pin-point contraction of the pupils. He turned the flashlight on his own face, then back to her.
She knew him — the sound of his voice and the glimpse of him. Even through the mists of the drug he saw the awareness of him struggle into her mind, and saw the tiny smile that lighted her whole face for an instant. She tried to raise her head, and her lips formed his name: “Simon...”
The effort was all she could make. Her head fell back and the lids closed over that shining look.
And then suddenly there was a blaze of lights that smashed away all shadows and wiped out the beam of his pencil light like a deluge would put out a match.
“Okay,” said the saw-toothed voice of Frankie Weiss. “This is a tommy gun. Don’t try anything, or I’ll blast all three of you.”
The Saint turned.