Figures in a grotesque assortment of deshabille were running across the lawn with the erratic scurrying wildness of flushed rabbits.
"At least they all seem to have got out," said the Saint.
He switched off the engine and hitched his legs over the side of the car. Some of the scurrying figures, attracted perhaps like moths by the new blaze of the headlights, had started to run towards them. The first to arrive was a young man who carried a girl over his shoulder. He was large and blond and impressively moustached, and he wore blue-and-green striped pajamas. He dumped the girl on the ground at the Saint's feet, rather like a retriever bringing in a bird, and stood over her for a moment breathing heavily.
"By Jove," he said. "Oh, by Jove!… Steady on, Val, old thing. It's all right now. You're quite safe."
He put out a hand to restrain her as she tried to get up, but with a quick movement she wriggled away from him and found her feet. She was dark and slender, but not so slender that the transparent nightgown which was her only covering lacked fascinating contours to cling to. The chiffon had slipped aside to bare one white shoulder and her curly hair was in a wild disarray, but even the thoroughly petulant spoiled-child expression that pouted her face could not disguise its amazing beauty.
"All right, all right," she said impatiently. "You've rescued me now, and I'm very much obliged. But for heaven's sake stop pawing me and find me something to wear."
She seemed to regard the fire as an event arranged by a malicious fate solely for her own inconvenience. The young man looked somewhat startled.
"Damn it, Valerie," he said in an injured tone, "do you realize—"
"Of course she does," said the Saint soothingly. "She knows you're a little hero. She's just being practical. And while we're being practical, do you happen to know whether anybody else is left in the house?"
The young man turned. He looked at Simon rather blankly, as if taken aback at being interrupted so unceremoniously.