They went out. The constable carried Lady Valerie's tiny valise. Simon paid the bill for her room at the desk. They left the hotel.
Simon steered the cortege along the street to the side turning where he had parked the Daimler. If Lady Valerie was surprised to see it she gave no sign. He opened the near-side door and ushered her in with ceremonial courtesy. Just then he was too full of thoughts for words. He went round the car and got into the driving seat.
The constable leaned in at the window.
"Good-bye, sir," he said jovially. "And I 'opes all your troubles are little ones."
"So do I," said the Saint, from the bottom of his heart, and let in the clutch.
The sergeant and the constable stood and watched him go. Simon saw them receding in the driving mirror. The sergeant looked vaguely frustrated, as if he still thought he ought to have done something else even though he couldn't think of anything else he could have done. The constable looked as if he wished he had had a handful of confetti in his pocket.
Simon drove out of town and took the cross-country road that led towards Amesbury. His emotions were approximately those of a shell that has just been fired out of a gun. He had been shot into space with one terrific explosion, and now he was sailing along with the fateful knowledge that there was another almighty bang waiting at the other end of the journey. The old proverbial voyagings between frying pans and fires seemed like comparatively pale and peaceful transitions to him. He drove very carefully, as if the car had been made out of glass.
Lady Valerie snuggled up against him.
"Are you happy, darling?" she said.
"Beloved," said the Saint chokily, "I'm so happy that I could wring your neck."