She laughed.
"I suppose you think I ought to give them to you for saving my life," she jeered extravagantly. "With tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks, I should stammer: 'Here they are — take them.' That's why you make me sick. You go about the place rescuing people and being the Robin Hood of modern crime, and then you go back to your blonde girl friend and have a grand time being told how wonderful you are. So you may be; but it just makes me sick."
"Well, if you feel sick, don't keep on talking about it — be sick," said the Saint hospitably. "Don't worry about the car — we can always have it cleaned."
She gave him a withering glare and turned ostentatiously away. She seemed to want to make it quite clear that his conversation was beneath her contempt and that even to endure his company was a martyrdom. She huddled as far away from him as the width of the seat permitted and resumed her scowling out of the window.
The Saint devoted himself to the tranquil enjoyment of his cigarette and waited contentedly for the climax which he knew must come before long.
It came after another five minutes.
All at once her eyes, fixed vacantly on the window, froze into a strange expression. She sat bolt upright.
"Here," she blurted. "What the… Where are we going? This isn't the way to the Carlton!"
Obviously it wasn't; they were down at the Chelsea end of the Embankment, heading west.
"Have you noticed that already?" said the Saint imperturbably. "How observant you are, darling. Now I suppose I can't keep my secret any longer. The fact is, I'm not taking you to the Carlton."