"This way, Major."
The young British Nazi led the way briskly through the kitchen, opened the scullery door and switched on the light. Lady Valerie stirred and gave a little moan as the sudden blaze stabbed her eyes. Bravache bowed to her with punctilious mockery, his lips parting in the unhumorous wolfish smile that Simon remembered.
"Much as I regret to disturb you, mademoiselle, your presence is required at the headquarters of the Sons of France."
Dumaire came past him and kicked Simon savagely in the ribs. Then he bent over, grinning like a rat, and lightly touched the dried bloodstains on Simon's cheeks.
"Blood is a better colouring than paint," he said.
He closed his fist and hit Simon twice in the face.
"Bleed, pig," he said. "I like the colour of your blood."
"It is red, at any rate," said the Saint unflinchingly. "Yours would be yellow."
Dumaire kicked him again; and then Bravache pushed him aside.
"Enough of that," he said. "We have no time to waste now. But there will be plenty of time later. And then I shall enjoy a little conversation with Mr Templar myself. We have several things to talk over."