"Well, you're not as clever as all that," flared the girl in open mutiny. "You heard what I told those two policemen. You didn't deny it then — anything was all right with you so long as it helped you to get away. You — you signed your name to it. And I won't be ditched. If you try to get rid of me now I–I'll sue you for breach of promise!"
Simon steadied himself. Now that the impending thunderstorm had broken, exactly as he had been nerving himself for it, he almost felt better.
"No jury would give you a farthing damages, sweetheart," he said. "As a matter of fact, they'd probably give me a reward for letting you out of an agreement to marry me."
"Oh, would they? Well, we'll see. It's all very well for you to go around breaking thousands of hearts and pushing around all the women you meet like a little Hitler bossing his tame dummies in the Reichstag—"
The car rocked with a force that flung her away from him.
The Saint straightened it up again anyhow. He let go the wheel and thumped his fists on it like a lunatic.
He yodelled. His face was transfigured.
"My God," he yelled, "how did you think of it? Of course that's what it was. That's the answer. The Reichstag!"
She gaped at him, rubbing a bruised elbow where it had hit the door in that wild swerve.
"What's the matter?" she asked blankly. "Have you gone pots or something?"