The Saint laid his head slowly back on the cushions and closed his eyes.
"Hoppy," he said solemnly, "I love you. When I die, the word 'Uniatz' will be found written on my heart."
"How about if de goil is selling it, boss?" ventured Mr Uniatz, tiptoeing into the dizzy realms of Theory. "Maybe she's in de racket, too, woikin' for de chemical factory where dey make it."
Simon passed him the whiskey bottle.
"Maybe she is, Hoppy," he said. "It's an idea, anyway. Give yourself some more nourishment while we think it over."
"Didn't you get anything useful out of her?" asked Patricia.
"She held out on me," said the Saint ruefully. "I did my best, but I might have saved myself the trouble. Amazing as it may seem, she wouldn't confide in me. The secrets of her girlish heart are still the secrets of her girlish heart so far as I'm concerned."
Peter clicked his tongue.
"You've met her four times now, and she hasn't confided in you," he said in accents of distress. "You must be losing your touch. They don't usually hold out so long."
"What do you mean by 'they'?" demanded the Saint unblushingly.