"Really," he stuttered, "Mr Templar's insinuations are so preposterous — I–I— Really, Inspector, you ought to — to do something to — um—"
"I quite understand, sir." Teal was polite and respectful, but his gum was starting on a new and interesting voyage. "At the same time, if you gave me an explanation—"
"I should think the explanation would be obvious," Fairweather said stuffily. "If your imagination is unable to cope with such a simple problem, the chief commissioner might be interested to hear about it."
Had he been a better psychologist he would have known that that was the last thing he should have said. Mr Teal was still acutely conscious that he was addressing a former cabinet minister, but the set of his jaw took on an obstinate heaviness.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the chief commissioner expects me to obtain definite statements in support of my imagination."
"Rubbish!" snorted Fairweather. "If you propose to treat me like a suspected criminal—"
"If you persist in this attitude, sir," Teal said courageously, "you may force me to do so."
Fairweather simply gaped at him.
And a great grandiose galumptious grin spread itself like Elysian honey over Simon Templar's eternal soul. The tables were turned completely. Fairweather was in the full centre of Teal's attention now — not himself. And Fairweather had assisted nobly in putting himself there. The moment contained all the refined ingredients of immortality. It shone with an austere magnificence that eclipsed every other consideration with its epic splendour. The Saint lay back in a chair and gave himself up to the exquisite absorption of its ambrosial glory.
And then the telephone bell rang again.