"I was trying to economize," he said. "And now I shall probably catch my death of cold."
Already the cool night air, flowing like nectar into his parched lungs, was beginning to revive him, and in a few minutes his superb resilience would do the rest. He reviewed his injuries more systematically, and realized that comparatively speaking he was almost miraculously unscathed.
The thing that had come nearest to downing him was the smoke and fumes of the fire; and the effects of that were dispersing themselves like magic now that he could breathe again without feeling as if he were inhaling molten ash.
He cocked an eye at the stolid country policeman who was holding his other arm.
"Do you have to be quite so professional, Reginald?" he murmured. "It makes me feel nervous."
The constable's hold relaxed reassuringly.
"I'd get along and see the doctor, sir, if I was you. He's in the lodge now with Lady Sangore."
"Is that the old trout's name? And I'll bet her husband is at least a general." The Saint was starting to get his bearings, and his legs began to feel as if they belonged to him again. He searched for a cigarette. "Thanks, but Lady Sangore can have him. I'd rather have a drink. I wonder if we could get any co-operation from the owner of this jolly little bonfire?"
"You mean Mr Fairweather, sir? That's him, coming along now."
While Simon had been inside the house, a number of other people had arrived on the scene, and another policeman and a sergeant were loudly ordering them to stand back. Paying no attention to this whatever, they swarmed excitedly round the Saint, all talking at once and completely frustrating the fat little Mr Fairweather, who seemed to be trying to make a speech. The voice of the general rose above the confused jabber like a foghorn.