"Do you think there was something fishy about this fire?" he demanded.
"Mr Templar's personal opinions are not matters which concern this court," interrupted the coroner sternly.
The Saint smiled. He looked at the little juryman, and spoke very clearly and distinctly.
"Yes," he said. "I think there were a lot of very fishy things about it."
There was a moment of silence so heavy that it seemed almost solid. And then it broke in a babble of twittering speculation that surged over the room as if a swarm of bees had been turned loose. There was a craning of necks all over the court, a quick rustling of notebooks among the reporters.
Simon stood at his ease, absorbing the pleasant radiations of the sensation he had created. Well, he reflected, he had certainly done it now. He glanced at the rows of seats where the party from Whiteways was sitting. Luker's expression had not changed: he wore his usual cold stony mask. Fairweather looked acutely unhappy: he could not meet the Saint's gaze. The General and Lady Sangore had adopted an indignant pose of having nothing to do with what was going on: they sat as if red-hot pokers had been inserted into their backs and they were pretending not to notice it.
Simon's glance travelled on and found the faces of Peter and Patricia among the scatter of pink blobs that were turned up to him. He held their eyes for a moment with a message of impenitent devilry.
The jury were goggling at him openmouthed, with the sole exception of the small black-bearded man, who had taken up a Napoleonic posture with his arms proudly folded and a radiance of anarchistic joy on his face. The coroner had gone slightly purple; he banged on the table in front of him.
"Silence!" he shouted. "Silence, or I'll have the court cleared!"
He turned angrily on Simon.